


Waking

by charlock221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was always there. Whenever Sherlock woke up, he'd be there, usually slouched in the hospital chair next to the bed, asleep. Sometimes, he'd remain conscious, determined to see the moment the detective woke up. Either way, Sherlock never woke alone, no matter what he'd done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up into a Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This carries on from the one-shot 'Waking' in my Through Thick and Thin story, but it can be read alone x

He was always there. Whenever Sherlock woke up, he'd be there, usually slouched in the hospital chair next to the bed, asleep. Sometimes, he'd remain conscious, determined to see the moment the detective woke up. Either way, Sherlock never woke alone, no matter what he'd done.

It had been an extremely tiring day at work, and John was walking along the streets of London and back to Baker Street, having decided that the fresh air would hopefully help him focus. Clearly it wasn't working, for he didn't even notice the black car pull up alongside him, and it wasn't until a blinding pain flashed through his skull and he began to sink into darkness, that he knew something was wrong.

* * *

John awoke alone and groggily, a constant pounding in his head bringing him back to awareness. His eyes cracked open, and he immediately bolted upright when he saw his surroundings. _Cabin_ , was the first word that came to mind. He was definitely in some sort of cabin. The wooded walls and wooded furniture certainly supported that statement, and the old-fashioned stove suggested somewhere simple and basic. John was sitting on a single bed in the corner of the room, and the wall-length windows let in floods of light. Outside, the only thing that could be viewed was a large expanse of forest. He had absolutely no idea where he was.

The ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he rummaged in his pocket before drawing it out and moving over to the window.

"Hello?"

"Doctor, good to know you're awake." Mycroft. He should have known.

"What am I doing here? Wherever _here_ is." he asked, looking out at the forest again.

"You are in the Black Forest, John. In Ger–"

"Yes, I know it's in Germany." John interrupted. " _Why_ am I in Germany?"

There was a long pause on the line before Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock has relapsed." he said solemnly.

John closed his eyes. "Shit." he muttered.

"Yes, quite." Mycroft answered.

"Then why aren't _you_ here, Mycroft?" John hissed, anger seeping into his veins, though he wasn't sure who he was angry with. "You're his brother; shouldn't you be looking after him?"

"As much as I wish I could, do you really think he'll want me there?"

John sighed, trying to regain control of his emotions. "Sorry. You're right. I didn't mean to snap."

"It's not your fault, John." Mycroft said, apparently able to hear the doctor's thoughts.

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. I received a call three nights ago from St. Bart's telling me that he'd been found lying unconscious in an alleyway."

"What did he take?"

Another pause. "Heroin."

John's heart plummeted. "Do you know why?" he whispered.

"Why he did it? No. It's up to you to find out. I've arranged for the two of you to remain there for six months."

" _Six_ months? I can't do that, Mycroft. My work–"

"– has been told that instead of Sherlock, it's your cousin. They understand, and you will still have a job waiting for you when you return. Mrs Hudson has been informed of the situation – an honest account – and I have paid the six month's rent in advance."

"What about Lestrade? Does he know?"

"He's under the impression that Sherlock has been in a serious accident, and has taken some time away from Baker Street to recover. Besides your landlady, no one knows what has really happened."

"Right." John answered, not knowing what else there was to say.

It was Mycroft's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry, John. He needs you now more than ever."

Because that's why John was there. A shoulder for someone to cry on. A constant presence that calmed and soothed. Because that's all he was good for, apparently.

The phone call disconnected and John was left with a heavy silence.

As if being able to sense where the detective was, he moved across the room and out into the thin corridor. John walked left down the hallway and stopped outside the next door, pausing before entering. Knocking would be useless; the detective was probably still unconscious.

Poking his head around the door, John frowned when he saw the state Sherlock was in. He was hooked up to almost every machine in the room and was as pale as a sheet with dark circles hovering under his eyes. Never had he looked so vulnerable.

"Dear God, Sherlock." John murmured as he dropped into a chair by the bed, placing his head in his hands.

* * *

It was twenty-two hours later when Sherlock awoke. He felt drained, yet he was too curious to know where he was to let himself fall back to sleep.

Opening his eyes, his brows furrowed as he took in the unfamiliar setting of wooded walls, the faint aroma of pine and the bright light that seeped in through the windows to illuminate the room. A faint sound of trickling water could be heard from his left, and he stiffly moved his neck to find the source. He immediately wished he hadn't when he saw John stood at a small sink, his back to him, filling a glass with water. When the doctor turned, he started at the sight of Sherlock awake and watching him, before heading back to the bed and offering the cup to him.

Sherlock accepted it gratefully and began to sip at it, studying John as the doctor sat down. It was obvious that the ex-soldier was extremely stressed about the situation. The dark circles under his eyes suggested a long and sleepless night, and the ruffled hair revealed the amount of times John had ran his fingers through it.

"How do you feel?" John asked. His voice portrayed no emotion, and he watched Sherlock calmly.

"Rough." he croaked, lying back down against the pillow.

John nodded. "I would imagine so." he answered.

There was an uncomfortable silence left between the two, and the detective nervously cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry." he muttered.

The doctor nodded again. "I know." he replied.

"It was an accident."

"I know."

"I won't do it again, I promise."

This time there was hesitation before John answered, as if he didn't believe him. "I know, Sherlock." he said softly. "Get some more rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Where are we this time?"

"Germany." John answered, scrubbing a hand across his face wearily.

"Oh."

John pursed his lips and reached across to feel Sherlock's forehead, whilst also taking the empty glass from him. He reached for the side table and then placed a cool flannel over the detective.

"This should help cool you down a bit." he muttered. "Just call me if you want some more water, or anything to eat." he added.

"Thank you." Sherlock answered earnestly. John smiled slightly in response and headed back over to the sink with the glass, washing it out with water. Sherlock sighed, knowing that John would forgive him quickly for this, especially if he was already back to smiling at the detective. Perhaps this hadn't affected him as much as he'd originally thought.

However, one glance at the mirror above the sink with John's reflection in it quickly dispelled those thoughts. Seeing the look of hurt, betrayal and sheer exhaustion reflected upon John's face made his heart break piece by piece.

Soon enough John returned with the re-filled glass of water, those emotions now wiped from his face. He set down the glass then sank into the chair, watching Sherlock drink from it.

When the detective finished he looked across at John. "How long?" he asked.

"Six months." was the hoarse reply. A crack in the mask.

"John–"

"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John interrupted, standing up whilst avoiding eye contact. "I'll be back soon." He made his way across the room and walked out the door without a second glance at Sherlock.

Never had Sherlock felt guiltier than he did now. True, this had happened before, but never for six months, and never because of heroin. He would have much preferred the angry side of John, rather than this cold and emotionless side. With these thoughts in mind, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Upon awakening again, Sherlock wasn't surprised to notice the darkness that had enshrouded the room. He was surprised, though, to see John asleep in the chair next to him, a hand resting on the edge of the bed. He still looked exhausted, but the worry lines weren't as prominent now. Sherlock knew that the only communication to the outside world that they had was through John's phone, though that didn't include Wi-Fi. No television, no radio, no laptop... no blog. Yes, Sherlock was known for getting extremely bored within short periods, but what people didn't know was that it was John who really suffered from boredom.

Being a soldier meant he craved action, but now he could only rely on Sherlock for some excitement. He usually managed to distract himself with the TV or writing in his blog, but now that they were gone Sherlock didn't know how he would cope. He gave the doctor two weeks before things started to get tense, as if they weren't already.

A quiet groan from John caused Sherlock to look at him, and soon the smaller man was slowly waking. His hazel eyes opened, and he rolled his head across towards Sherlock automatically, jerking slightly at the ice-blue eyes that were scrutinising him intensely.

"How do you feel?" John asked.

"Fine." Sherlock answered. "What about you?" he added.

"Me? I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm not the one who... well." He coughed nervously, avoiding the rest of the sentence.

"No, you weren't." the detective said quietly, averting his gaze.

"Why did you do it?" John questioned. _Why did you ignore my advice_?

"I'm not sure..."

John scoffed. "Bullshit, Sherlock. Give me a proper answer."

"I needed a stimulant, John. You know how it is."

"I thought I did. But that's still no excuse."

"I know, and I intend to make it up to you. I won't do it again."

John put his head in his hands. "How do I know that? You promise me every time, and you _always_ break it. You can't expect me to be able to trust you so quickly after this, Sherlock." he said quietly.

"John, it would be worrying if you still remained faithful after everything I've put you through." Sherlock said. "But this time I mean it when I promise you it won't happen again."

"Those words sound too rehearsed, Sherlock." John retorted, lifting up his head, "They're empty. You're going to have to do a lot more than that to convince me."

"Yes, and I will. You can do whatever you feel necessary regarding my health, and I'll find something else to do when I get bored. Something else to occupy my mind."

"You and me both, Sherlock" John muttered.

"I know I can rely on you to help me, John. And I'll help you, too. We'll both get through this. We're in the Black Forest, for crying out loud. There must be _something_ out there to do." Sherlock said.

"Mmm. Maybe I'll teach you how to fish." John said.

"Dear God, anything but fishing."

"Bird watching?"

"Be serious."

"Foraging for mushrooms?"

"Honestly? What was your childhood like?"

"What about 'hide and seek'?"

"...I won't rule it out."

John smiled, and Sherlock returned it without hesitation, though he wondered how long it would be before the smiles disappeared.


	2. Strong Moral Principle

The cabin was bigger than John had originally thought. It was two storeys, and the rooms were very spacious. The bathroom and the kitchen were the only rooms without a fireplace. It was all very clinical, with the kitchen being modern whilst other rooms were wooded but also with a touch of the twenty-first century – without the technology. It was almost... therapeutic. It was nice. John probably would have enjoyed his stay, if it wasn't for the reason he was here.

He hadn't returned to the bedroom he'd woken up in when he first arrived, instead he kipped on the leather couch in the corner of Sherlock's room, should the detective need anything. It was also to prevent his flatmate from escaping through the window, which he'd twice attempted to do, only to be stopped by the angry army doctor.

It was safe to say that tensions were running high by now. Three long weeks had passed and both occupants were feeling the strain and suffering from immense boredom.

"I want to know the truth." John said one night as he and Sherlock sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, both of them picking at their meals the doctor had prepared for them.

"The truth about what?" Sherlock asked, knowing full-well what he meant.

"Why you decided to take heroin."

"I've told you–"

"Yes, but it was vague and meagre, and I refuse to accept it as an answer. So tell me before I leave and let you suffer alone." he growled.

Sherlock looked up sharply. He knew John had been stressed, but the doctor had done well to restrain his anger up to now.

"I'm not suffering." he said quietly.

John sighed and carefully put his fork down. "Yes you are," he answered. "I can tell you're suffering from anxiety and because of that you're being bloody irritable as heck. You aren't sleeping and you've been sweating and shaking for the past few days. Withdrawal symptoms, as you full well know."

"Yes, I do know." Sherlock snapped. "I don't need you to tell me what's wrong with me, and I most certainly don't need you mollycoddling me 24/7."

"I haven't been _mollycoddling_ you, Sherlock. No, I've been too busy clearing up your vomit, or preventing a fever from taking over you, or ensuring you don't suffer from a heart attack."

"I don't need your help." the detective leaned forward, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"And I won't give it if you're not going to take it." John also leaned forward, refusing to be cowed by Sherlock.

"Rest assured I most certainly will not take it, Doctor." he snarled.

"So be it." John answered, pushing himself up from the table and heading towards the door. "Good luck trying to find anyone else who'll help." he said as he strode out.

"I don't need help!" Sherlock yelled. "And I definitely don't need you!"

The footsteps paused for a moment, before they resumed again, marching at a quicker pace away from the kitchen.

"Goddammit!" Sherlock shouted, flinging his plate across the room until it hit the wall and shattered, leaving broken porcelain and vegetable scattered about on the floor.

"I don't need anyone!" he shouted to the air. "I am more than capable of looking after myself!"

Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen and back to his room. The machinery had long since been taken out by some of Mycroft's men, leaving just his bed, wardrobe and a set of drawers. He flopped down onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow, trying his best to calm down. He wasn't helpless. He wasn't someone who needed to be monitored all the time. He was able to cope perfectly well on his own.

He could hear someone walk by his door, and noticed how they hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to come in or keep going, and then Sherlock heard them sound back down the corridor, towards the room next to his. Good. He didn't need John, either. Most definitely.

Sherlock drifted to sleep still fully-clothed with those thoughts in mind, wondering if the pacing next door would ever stop.

* * *

He woke in the middle of the night with terrible stomach pains. Groaning softly, Sherlock curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his middle in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain. He gritted his teeth and levered himself up from the bed, staggering from his room and down the corridor until he was downstairs, past the kitchen and in the bathroom. Diarrhoea was a common withdrawal symptom, a symptom Sherlock was experiencing now. It didn't help to lessen the pain, and he continued to groan as he flushed the loo and washed his hands.

It was unbearable. He felt as if his gut was twisting this way and that, clenching hard and refusing to let go. Sherlock could feel his legs weaken, and he lurched back through the kitchen, using the wall to keep him standing. His foot slipped on a piece of porcelain that he'd never gotten round to cleaning up, and Sherlock crashed to the floor. Wincing, he pushed himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall, and he hissed when his palm was sliced by another shard of porcelain.

Then he paused.

His mind had been briefly distracted by the sudden flash of pain that had shot through his hand so much so that the pain residing in his stomach had almost disappeared.

Hmm.

With a sense of caution, Sherlock reached for the shard and held it loosely in the palm of his hand. Then he slowly folded his fingers over it and squeezed, watching with disinterested eyes.

The pain was instantaneous and seared through his palm, a sharp, pointed sting that dominated his hand and made his fingers tingle. It wasn't particularly enjoyable, but it lessened the agony in his stomach. He began to feel nauseous and felt the beads of sweat around the top of his forehead, but he paid it no heed, too focused was he on the singular shard of porcelain in his hand. Blood began to ooze out of his clenched fingers, dribbling over his palm and running down his wrist. It was entrancing, and Sherlock gazed at it dully, squeezing harder for effect.

A foreign pair of hands suddenly enclosed around his and began to pry at his fingers, trying to open them.

"Stop it." A firm voice made Sherlock glance up to see a pyjama-clad John looking down at his hand and trying to extract the shard of porcelain from it. The detective frowned, and clenched harder to stop him, causing more blood to leak out.

"Sherlock, stop it. Look at me." John placed a hand against Sherlock's cheek and tried to get him to make eye contact. Reluctantly, he looked into those hazel irises.

"Let go. Now, Sherlock." His voice left no room for argument, and eventually Sherlock relaxed his fingers. John took advantage of this and opened up the detective's hand, snatching the piece of porcelain from his grip and casting it aside. John took a hold of Sherlock's arm and stood him up slowly. He guided him back towards the bathroom and made him sit atop the toilet whilst he fetched a towel and held it securely against Sherlock's hand.

"Hold that." he ordered, and the detective complied, flexing his fingers and holding on to the towel himself as John left the bathroom and then returned a few minutes later with a bucket and a glass of water in his grip. He placed the bucket on the floor and the water on the side, then took over the job of pressing the towel to Sherlock's hand.

"If you're going to vomit, you do it in that bucket, understood?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly and watched as John peeled back the towel and examined the single slice across his palm.

"That will probably need stitches." John muttered. "Come here." He led him over to the sink and held the detective's hand underneath the running cold water. As that happened, John looked Sherlock up and down, searching for any more injuries. Noticing the tremors and the pale complexion of his flatmate, John pressed a hand against his forehead to gauge a temperature. Sherlock flinched and tried to pull back, but one look at the firm expression on John's face and he remained still and let the doctor scrutinize him.

John turned off the taps and sat Sherlock back down on top of the toilet. He found a first aid box in a cupboard and opened it, seeking stitches and a pair of scissors. He rested Sherlock's hand on his knee and carefully began to stitch together his skin. Sherlock remained perfectly still throughout it until John finished and wrapped his hand in a bandage.

"Drink this." John offered the water along with two strong painkillers. Sherlock gratefully accepted them and downed them in one go.

"Stomach pains again?" the doctor asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Worse than before." he mumbled.

"Which is why you felt the need to slice open your palm." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't grace it with an answer.

John sighed and tugged slightly on his flatmate's hand, making him stand up. His legs were still weak so John wound an arm around his waist to keep him upright. Together they made it back to Sherlock's room, and he was gently lowered onto the bed. Yawning, he crawled underneath the covers and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. He felt a cool hand press against his forehead again, and he peeled open an eye, watching as John placed another glass of water onto the bedside table.

"You look tired." Sherlock murmured.

"It's two in the morning, Sherlock."

"You always look tired." A mixture of exhaustion, blood loss and painkillers meant Sherlock was more loose-tongued than usual.

"Thanks." the doctor frowned.

"Is it because of me?"

John sighed. "Not just you." he said softly. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better." He turned to go, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"Stay, please." he whispered. John looked like he was going to argue, but thought against it and instead dropped into the chair next to his bed.

"I'm here." he leaned forward and patted the drowsy detective's arm. "I'll be here when you wake up, don't worry."


	3. Caring is not an Advantage

" _Doctor Watson, may I ask if your sister lives alone?"_

John frowned, listening to the voice of a police officer he was on friendly terms with on the other end of the phone. His name was Williams, or something like that.

John was currently crouched behind a large tree in the middle of the Black Forest, waiting for Sherlock to find him. The detective had finally persuaded him to play 'hide and seek' after he had jokingly suggested it, and he'd been hiding for ten minutes when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

"Yes, she does." he whispered, looking around. "Why?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line before the officer spoke again.

_"I'm afraid Miss Watson's been hospitalised."_

John subconsciously stood up, shocked at the news. "What?" His voice resumed its normal volume, "What happened?"

_"She was assaulted last night."_

"Assaulted? In what way?" he asked, dreading the worst.

_"No, nothing like that, Doctor. She's sustained a few cracked ribs and a nice black eye, along with cuts and scrapes, but that's all."_

"Jesus." John whispered, scrubbing his face. "Do you know who did it?"

_"Actually, we do. His name's Jack Reed. Know him?"_

"Can't say I do."

_"Miss Watson was awake a few hours ago, and she claimed she knew him. She won't say what their fight was over though."_

"Will he go to prison?"

_"Definitely. Six months, at least."_

"Alright. You say Harry was awake? How was she?"

_"Ah... 'irritated' is the word I'd use, Doctor."_

"Yeah, she's like that. Sorry."

 _"It's OK. The doctors are keeping her overnight just for observation. Will you be coming back to the UK?"_ Most of Scotland Yard knew Sherlock and John were abroad, but they didn't know the circumstances.

"I can't, I'm sorry, I won't be able to leave yet." John knew it didn't sound very brotherly, and right now he wanted nothing more than to be back in England and taking apart the bastard who had done this to his sister, but he couldn't – wouldn't – leave Sherlock.

_"Oh. Right. OK, then. I have to go now, but someone will contact you if anything changes."_

"Thank you, officer." He hung up his phone and stuffed it in his pocket, then closed his eyes. He felt awful. _It wasn't your choice to stay here_ , a voice reminded him, but that didn't make things any easier.

Before he had a chance to contemplate further, something powerful suddenly slammed into his back and he was sent crashing to the floor. He landed on his bad shoulder and let out a cry, but then his soldier instincts took over and he flipped onto his back, ready to strike at whatever – or whoever – was sitting on his stomach.

John had to stop himself, though, when he saw Sherlock grinning down at him, a manic glint in his eyes.

"Found you." he said.

John sighed, letting his head fall back against the hard floor. "Yes, you did." he breathed, winded. "But you didn't have to tackle me to the sodding ground."

Sherlock shrugged. "It seemed necessary."

"How was it necessary?" the doctor growled. "At what point did you think it would be OK to ambush me and scare the life out of me?"

"Did I scare you?" Sherlock smiled, a triumphant expression crossing his face.

"Yes." he answered without embarrassment. "I was having an important phone call."

"Which easily gave away your position." the detective said, standing up. "I would've thought your experiences in Afghanistan meant you were able to hide well enough."

"I am able to hide well enough, thank you very much. And we didn't tend to take phone calls in the middle of desert."

"Oh, don't use that phone call as an excuse. You were clearly behind this tree." Sherlock tapped the rough bark.

"OK, fine. Your turn." he sighed. Sherlock's eyes positively lit up and he scampered off into the forest, disappearing from sight a few seconds later. John shook his head and got to his feet. Most people suffering from withdrawal symptoms would stay in bed, too weak to move unless to vomit. When Sherlock wasn't vomiting or grouching about in a mood, he was bounding about the cabin or the woods with far too much energy for someone who was supposed to be sick and bedbound.

John finished counting to one hundred and slowly began trekking in the direction Sherlock had sprinted. As he walked, he tried to think of excuses he could give to Harriet, whom he was certain would phone as soon as she was capable. It wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to, because he knew no excuse would explain why he wasn't looking after his big sister.

He wondered if he should tell Sherlock. Obviously he knew he wouldn't be able to leave Germany – and even if he could he wasn't going to leave Sherlock – but he wanted to tell someone, and the detective was his only companion in this foreign country.

He didn't feel like playing hide and seek anymore. He had absolutely no idea where Sherlock was, so he pulled out his phone and fired a quick text off to Mycroft.

_Does Sherlock have his phone with him? – JW_

The reply came back a few minutes later as he scoured the forest in the hopes that perhaps he might catch a glimpse of Sherlock's coattails.

_Yes, he does, but Wi-Fi has been disabled. Why? – MH_

_Doesn't matter – JW_

John kept his phone out and scrolled through his contacts until he came upon Sherlock's name. With a small smirk, he pressed the call button.

After ten seconds he could hear a loud ringing somewhere to his left, and he turned and then looked up to see his flatmate sat up in a tree a few metres away with his phone in one hand and a scowl on his face.

"Using your phone is cheating." he said.

"No it's not, it's logic. I'm surprised you didn't think to do it." John answered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it, settling for a simple glare.

"How did you even get up there?" John asked, squinting up at him. Sherlock was a good fifteen feet above him, with only very feeble branches below.

"I flew up." the detective said, sarcastically.

John considered him for a few moments, before deciding he really wasn't in the mood for this.

"Right." he said, turning around and walking back to the cabin, which was approximately a ten minute walk.

"John?" Sherlock called, frowning. "I – I might require your help, actually."

"You got up there; you can get back down."

"No... no, I don't think I can." he said, glancing down at the ground.

"For God's sake." John muttered, stopping and returning to the tree. "What do you expect me to do?" he called.

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Not sure..." he murmured.

John rolled his eyes, getting more and more frustrated. He moved so that he was stood directly underneath Sherlock. Looking up, he estimated the detective's swinging shoes to be about five feet above him, and he nodded to himself, a plan forming in his mind. Hopefully it would go smoothly; the sun was setting and all he wanted now was to return home to think without any distractions.

"Sherlock, if you begin to lower yourself down, then you can stand on my shoulders and get down from there." It was a shabby plan, but John could think of nothing else.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking along the same lines, judging by his furrowed brow. John growled in anger.

"Can you think of anything better? Because I'm happy to take suggestions."

The detective shook his head and then clutched onto the branch he was sitting on firmly. Slowly, he began to let himself down. John had his arms outstretched and he swiftly caught Sherlock's dangling legs, guiding them towards his shoulders. He felt Sherlock's shoes touch his jacket, and soon the lanky detective was wobbling on his shoulders, holding onto the tree for support.

"Can you jump down?" John grunted, wincing at the throbbing pain in his left shoulder.

"Yes, give me a second." John felt long hands on both of his shoulders as his flatmate crouched down, and then the weight from Sherlock's feet was gone, and after that the weight was gone altogether. Sherlock strode past John without a second glance, and John followed with a sigh, knowing the detective was likely to be in a mood with him now that they were no longer playing games.

When they arrived at the cabin, Sherlock headed straight to his room and locked the door. John ignored him and walked into his own room... then stopped to see Mycroft Holmes sitting on his bed.

"Mycroft." John said, eyebrows raised. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, I thought I could help _you_." he answered with a thin smile.

"Right... What with, exactly?"

"I was sure you'd want more information regarding your sister's situation, and so I've brought you her case file – though it's not much of a case." Mycroft reached behind him and held up a large brown file.

"That's... kind of you." John said earnestly. "Why, though?"

Mycroft's smile faltered for a moment. He looked at John seriously. "You must know that I don't think it a good idea for you to leave Sherlock. No matter what you say, I simply cannot–"

"Mycroft, it's alright." the doctor interrupted him, holding up his hands. "I knew you wouldn't let me go, and I think I'm OK with it. It's just a lot to take in, is all." he explained.

The government official nodded understandingly. "I realise that this isn't the best of times for Miss Watson to be attacked, and I am grateful to you for remaining here. In this case file there is your sister's statement about what happened, along with Jack Reed's criminal record and anything else you might wish to know."

"Thank you Mycroft. I really appreciate it."

Mycroft waved his gratitude away. "It's fine, John... How is he?" The elder Holmes seemed almost hesitant when asking about his brother.

"He's next door sulking if you want to see him." John gestured to the adjacent room.

Mycroft grimaced. "What about cravings?"

"Not too bad, but I'm sure they'll get worse soon enough." the doctor smiled.

"Anything else I should know?"

John hesitated for a few seconds, about to bite back the next sentence, but the look on Mycroft's face showed he'd caught the hesitation.

He sighed. "Sherlock cut himself last night."

"Cut himself how?" Mycroft asked sharply, no surprise evident on his face.

"Only across his palm. It needed stitches, but nowhere else was injured."

"Has he told you why?"

John shook his head. "No, but if I had to guess I'd say it was to distract himself from his stomach pain. He's been getting them most nights."

"Well, I can always trust you to take care of him. Thank you, Doctor Watson. Don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything." He moved towards the door, but stopped when he was next to John. "Oh, one more thing. Why did you ask me if Sherlock had his phone?"

John flushed. "We were – er – playing hide and seek. I decided I didn't want to play anymore so I rang him. That's why he's sulking."

Mycroft smiled condescendingly. "I see. Good day, John." he said, walking out the door and disappearing from sight.

John's eyes scanned over the file on the bed, and he wasted no time in going over and sitting down to flick through the papers.

Harry's statement said she had met up with Reed at a bar to discuss their work – apparently the two of them were colleagues, working together in human resources for a big company, though Harry had never mentioned him. There had then been an argument – even in her statement, Harry didn't go into specifics – and the bartender had thrown them outside. Harry had continued to shout at Reed – she used a lot of expletives to describe her colleague – and the man had some friends lurking down an alleyway who snuck up on her and threw plenty of punches her way. They left her lying in the alleyway, and Harry said she had been found by a woman she recognised from the bar. An ambulance had been called, and after that Harry lost consciousness.

John felt his anger simmer, both at Jack Reed and Harry's vague statement. He couldn't know if Reed's anger was justified, or he had acted too rashly. He was definitely going to have to have a conversation with his sister.

"You've got a case?" Sherlock's voice from the doorway startled John, and he looked up, closing the file as he did.

"What?" he croaked.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The detective moved closer into the room, an expression of anger and betrayal on his face.

"Sherlock, it's not–"

"No, I don't care how inappropriate a case might be right now, or how it could affect my health. That file was for me, and you hadn't even told me!"

"No, that's not true. This is–"

"I don't care, John. I told you I don't want to be mollycoddled, and that's exactly what you're doing."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John exclaimed, rising from the bed. "Look, if you want to have a read so bad, then fine. Be my guest." He held out the file to his flatmate, who stalked across the room and snatched it from the doctor's grip. Then Sherlock flew from the room, intent on busying himself with case notes. John sighed and sank down onto the bed, holding his head in his hands.

He didn't care that Sherlock knew now. He didn't care if Sherlock proved how it was Harry's fault, or deduced that his sister would never talk to him again, despite how worried John was. He'd had enough of caring. What good had it done him? Caring had gotten him shot in Afghanistan. Caring had seen his best friend jump from a rooftop. And now he cared more than ever, for both Harry and Sherlock, but no one was around to see it, or appreciate it.

"John."

The soft tone of the usually sharp voice was enough to make John raise his head from his hands, and he saw Sherlock watching him sympathetically. That almost made things worse. He didn't want Sherlock's sympathy. He _wanted_ to go home, but that wasn't going to happen.

John pushed himself off from the bed and strode over to Sherlock, taking the file from his hand without meeting his flatmate's eyes.

"I didn't know–"

"No, you didn't. And you didn't stop to let me explain." John retorted. "Just leave me alone, please. There's food in the fridge if you're hungry." He wandered back over to his bed and collapsed on top of it, covering his face with his hands again.

Sherlock wanted to say something, but this situation was making him feel extremely uncomfortable, so he turned and walked away, ignoring the pain in both his stomach and his heart.


	4. Trying to Keep it Together

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

John jolted upright in his bed at the deafening ringing bouncing around the room, and he immediately placed his hands over his ears. When he'd regained control of his senses, and his head was no longer scrambled and confused, his mind noted that it was just the fire alarm. John sighed and flopped back down on top of his bed.

Wait, fire alarm?

He was up once more and running towards the door, flinging it open and glancing up and down the corridor. He padded barefoot over to Sherlock's room and pounded on the door, waiting for the detective to answer. When no response came, he peeked inside to see Sherlock's bed empty. With a feeling of irritation, he closed the door and walked down the rest of the corridor, down the stairs and into the kitchen, stopping and watching the scene before him with a sigh.

Sherlock was dancing around the oven in a feeble attempt to put out the great fire that had taken one of the frying pans hostage. The detective kept darting back and forth, dodging the rogue flames and every now and then he'd whip a kitchen towel at it, though it clearly had no effect on the blaze whatsoever.

"Jesus Christ." John muttered as he rushed forward and snatched the towel out of Sherlock's grip and then wasted no time in wetting it underneath the tap, before moving back over to the frying pan and quickly smothering the fire with the wet cloth. The flames didn't go without a fight, however, and John received a fierce burn to his hand before the blaze suffocated.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_." he hissed, sliding back over to the sink and holding his hand under the cool water for a minute. He looked over to Sherlock as he did so, and rolled his eyes when he saw the detective sitting at the kitchen table eating a plate of pancakes.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock glanced across at him with a frown on his face.

"Eating pancakes." he answered, looking down at his plate as if to verify to himself that he _was_ actually eating pancakes.

John sighed, removing his hand from the water and wrapping it in a towel that didn't have scorch marks.

"I've noticed that, Sherlock. I meant, what the hell are you doing, having just battled with a fire and now sitting down to eat sodding _pancakes_?"

"Did you... want some?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised.

John tilted his head and closed his eyes. "Yes, I want some, but that's not what I'm angry about!"

Sherlock pursed his lips for a few moments, before shaking his head. "You're going to have to be more specific, John, because I really–"

" _How on earth did you start a fire by making pancakes?_ " John all but shouted, sinking into the chair opposite Sherlock.

"I – the mixture seemed too runny, so I thought I'd add some more flour..."

John didn't hear the rest of the explanation, for he'd placed his head in his hands and let out a loud groan, having worked out the rest for himself.

" _Why_ did you add the flour whilst the mixture was in the pan?" he asked.

Sherlock halted his explanation and cleared his throat. "I... temporarily forgot about the after-effects."

"So how come you're sitting here eating your first batch of pancakes? Why'd you make another batch?" When he said this he raised his head, cataloguing the detective's expression.

Sherlock shrugged, "I'm hungry." Then he paused before speaking again, though this time more it was slowed, "... And I'm trying to distract myself."

John nodded slightly, understanding. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, his mind finally noticing the way his flatmate's long fingers were tapping continuously, and how his sharp, ice-grey eyes were darting about the room.

"We'll think of something to do." John said as he got up to make a cup of tea, already trying to think of things the two of them could do to stave off the impending boredom that was threatening to overwhelm them both.

"What happened to your sister?"

John froze, his arm extended to reach one of the cupboards. He gradually lowered it and turned to face the younger man, who was now watching him with something akin to curiosity in his eyes.

"You had the case file last night; don't tell me you didn't read it?" John asked, disbelief dripping from his words.

Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't. When I saw Harriet's name, I closed the file." he said earnestly.

"Really?" At Sherlock's nod, he sat back down at the table. "She... was attacked, a few nights ago."

"How?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "Like I said, I'm trying to distract myself."

"Right," John said, standing up and walking towards the exit. "Well, I'll fetch the file and you can read it for yourself, if that's going to keep you entertained. I'll just..."

Sherlock caught John's hand, but he let go instantly when his flatmate recoiled, grimacing at the sudden pain that flared up from the severe burn that decorated the his hand. Even so, the doctor paused and waited for Sherlock to speak

"You know I didn't mean it like that." Sherlock said, "I want _you_ to tell me what happened."

"Why?"

"Because I know you're bored too."

"And you think recounting Harry's predicament, _knowing_ that I can't do anything about it, will help me feel better?"

Sherlock had no reply.

John sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll leave the file on your bed." He walked out without another word.

* * *

_It's not working, Mycroft. Six months is too long – JW_

John put his phone on the arm of the sofa in the living room, then swung his legs up and curled into a ball, raking his fingers through his hair.

The living room was just as modern and clinical as the rest of the building. The two armchairs and sofa were black, and the walls were painted a bright white. There was a small fireplace underneath a new-looking mantlepiece, and a large television sat in the corner, though Sherlock and John were only able to watch movies on it, not being able to watch any TV shows unless they were on DVD.

John's phone buzzed, alerting him to a text, and he wearily read it.

_What do you expect me to do, John? You don't know how unpredictable my brother can be. Believe me, six months is the minimum, and I had considered longer. Now, if you've finished, I'm in a very important meeting at the moment and would appreciate it if you didn't interrupt me again – MH_

The doctor growled and threw his phone across the room with such force that it smashed into pieces when it collided with the opposite wall. He put his head between his knees and tried to calm his breathing.

He knew he was getting worked up over nothing. John was aware of how much of an arse Mycroft could be sometimes, so there really was no point in being angry. Still, those thoughts didn't help dispel his frustration, and he closed his eyes in an effort to block out everything around him. It didn't work very well.

"You realise you're still in your pyjamas?"

John felt the sofa dip at the other end, and he raised his head to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged opposite him.

"I'm aware." he mumbled, watching Sherlock cautiously.

"You want to go home." the detective stated.

"It doesn't matter. I should be more focused on you, anyway." He smirked slightly. "How do you feel?"

"Fine. How's your hand?"

"Throbbing. How's _your_ hand?" John shot a pointed look at his flatmate's bandaged limb.

"Healing. How's..." Sherlock opened his mouth to continue their sparring match, but no sound came out. "... No, I've got nothing." he finished lamely.

John chuckled and reached forward to squeeze Sherlock's knee. "Now tell me how you _really_ feel. And don't lie," he added before the detective could say anything. "I can tell when you lie."

"How?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Well, you begin to blink rapidly, and then your left eye starts twitching and you cross your legs as if you need to visit the bathroom. Then–"

"Stop making up such ridiculous lies, John." Sherlock scolded, though his lips twitched until he couldn't contain it any longer, and a wide smile graced his features. John wasted no time in returning the gesture, and soon he was grinning too, relishing the momentary lull in everything else that was going on.

"Come on, tell me." he persisted until Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, though his expression had become a little more serious.

"I don't know what you want to know." he said.

"How bad are your cravings?" John asked, still grasping Sherlock's knee.

"Worryingly bad." he answered as John listened intently. "I've been through this before, as you know, and I know how bad it really can get. I know you do too." he added before John could interrupt. "But you haven't experienced it. It isn't as bad as I've felt, but it's still enough that I'm desperate for anything to do."

"I'm sorry." John said, watching him sympathetically.

"What for?" Sherlock snapped, though his anger wasn't directed at John, more at himself for showing such weakness.

"For not... being there." he said hesitantly. "Both times."

"Both?" Sherlock asked, brows furrowed. He couldn't even think of one time.

John nodded. "Yeah. When you first took heroin, I had missed all the signs that showed you were craving a fix. The second time – or times – is now, in this clinic. I know I've been too caught up in my self-pity, and I've failed to notice how much you're suffering, too."

"No," Sherlock said sternly, shaking his head. "None of this was your fault, do you hear me? I made it so that you missed the signs, you know full well how much I can do that, and you weren't supposed to notice. I should have trusted you more. I should have come to you, or done something to dispel my cravings. And even now, I know how much this has affected you. I'm used to it; I'll be honest. Mycroft has kept me locked up for far longer than six months, and during those times I didn't have anyone to help me through it. And though I do now, I've still pushed you away and distanced myself from you. And it's not fair, John, for both of us. I should be the one apologising, not you."

"Sherlock," John said softly. "I don't blame you for isolating yourself. I've been in situations similar – not drugs, obviously, but severe depression, definitely – and I know how hard it can be to accept help from others. Just... as long as you're honest with me – with how you're feeling – whether you think you're going to puke or anything like that, and I'll do my best to help. I'll try not to get in your space too much, but you can't expect me to step back and watch you deteriorate. It's not going to happen."

"I know, and I'm glad you're here, John, I really am. I'll be more honest; I'll tell you if I think I'm going to blow something up because it's gotten so bad; I'll knock on your door on the way to the bathroom to throw my guts up; I'll stop making pancakes and find something more productive – and safe – to do. And I'll bear more attention to you, John, because this whole situation isn't fair on you, and you deserve so much more than my ignorance."

John practically beamed at Sherlock; he'd never seen him this... this _human_. Admitting his faults and vowing to make them better made John's heart swell.

"Come here." he murmured, and pulled his best friend into a fierce hug, clutching his crimson dressing gown tightly. John felt Sherlock reciprocate, those long fingers trailing up and down the doctor's back in a comforting gesture, the both of them knowing how badly the other needed this. John smiled again, and squeezed Sherlock once, before withdrawing.

"If you don't mind," he said. "I'm going to get dressed, and then I've got a moaning sister to sort out."

"Mmm, and I need to find some more sugar; that first batch of pancakes was far too tasteless."

John couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled from his lips as he left the room.


	5. Testing Boundaries

"No – Harry, it's not like that... Yes, I know what happened; you haven't stopped reminding me... No, I already told you I can't... Don't be like that, Harry, of course I care about you..."

Sherlock hovered in the doorway of John's bedroom and observed as the doctor stood staring out of the window, his posture stiff and tense. He was talking to his sister on the detective's phone, and Sherlock was currently waiting impatiently to get it back. Although Mycroft had promised to send John a new mobile, the younger man doubted he'd get it soon, considering the rather rash way in which John had disposed of his previous one.

"...It happened five weeks ago, Harry – Yes, I know you've been traumatised... No, the police haven't told me anything. I'm in Germany, remember?"

Sherlock shuffled forwards and tapped John on the shoulder. The doctor spun around and raised his eyebrows.

" _What_?" he mouthed.

"Try to get her to give a description of Jack Reed." he whispered, "Make sure she tells you about his ears, his middle fingers and–" He was cut off when John furiously shooed him away, turning back to the window and listening to his sister.

"What? Yes, of course I was listening... Yes, he's here with me... I've already told you; he's dangerously ill and he can't travel, so I need to stay here with him... Harry, you know I wouldn't do that... I'm not going to leave him!" John sighed heavily, passing a hand over his face. "Harry, I've already told you that I can't do anything to help you. Haven't you spoken to Mum, or Dad?"

Sherlock huffed and moved to sit on John's bed, waiting for the conversation to finish.

"Stop it, Harry. I'm sure if you gave them a chance, they'd help you... Well no, I did mean Mum more than Dad when I said that... No, I haven't talked to him for a while... Yes, we're still on speaking terms... Listen, Harry, I have to go, I'll speak to you later, bye!" He didn't give his sister a chance to say anything more, ending the call abruptly and with another sigh.

"Don't you just love older siblings?" John muttered as he strode out the bedroom, chucking his phone over to Sherlock without looking, who caught it easily.

"With all my heart." he answered absent-mindedly, though the doctor was already gone.

Sherlock eagerly scrolled through his phone until he reached the messages icon. With a sense of hope he opened up the icon, but his heart soon sank.

_No new messages._

Damn Lestrade. Sherlock had texted him about an hour ago, asking – or rather, demanding – the DI emailed him some cases to solve whilst he 'recovered from his injuries'. Lestrade had yet to answer, which only served to infuriate Sherlock more.

With a fierce growl he threw his phone aside and stalked out the room and through the numerous corridors until he was in the kitchen. He ignored John as he sat down and a cup of tea was placed in front of him, instead he tapped his fingers impatiently against the table.

"What's the matter?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced up to see John watching him with brows furrowed and his cup raised to his lips.

"I said, what's the matter? You look... jittery."

"I look _jittery_." Sherlock repeated sardonically.

"That's what I said. Now answer my question."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm fine."

John gave him a pointed look, "Sherlock–"

What did your sister say about me?"

"Since when did you care what others said about you?"

"Since now." he answered sharply. "Tell me."

"It's none of your business."

"It is if it's about me. And it can't be anything good if it came from your drunken sister." the detective snapped.

"Sherlock!

"Oh, what?!" he huffed loudly, throwing his head in his hands. "Why do you always take things so _personally_?"

"Because it _is_ personal!" John shot back, "She's my sister!"

"And I'm your best friend!" Sherlock argued, raising his head.

"Well, you're certainly not acting like it."

The younger man didn't reply, merely placed his head back in his hands.

John took a long sip of his tea, then sighed. "I think we should tell Greg." he said quietly, watching Sherlock intently to gauge his reaction.

"Tell him what?" the detective muttered.

"Tell him... about our situation."

Sherlock's head snapped up, "You're serious." he stated.

"Yes." "You think we should tell him, even though you know what he'd do if he found out."

"Sherlock, we don't know that he'll cut you off, you're just guessing."

"I never _guess_ , John, you know that."

"Has he done it before?"

Sherlock paused and pursed his lips. "No," he said eventually, "But he's threatened to in the past."

"Though you don't know that he actually will."

"I'm _certain_ he will."

John sighed again, "Sherlock–"

"It was a ridiculous idea, John."

"He's our friend–"

"But that won't prevent him from changing his mind. He's devoted to his work, so much so that he won't want a drug addict solving his cases, even if he knows him."

John shook his head, "You know that's not true, Sherlock. He respects you more than that, and we've lied to him one too many times. I think he deserves to know."

" _Deserves_? What has he done to _deserve_ our trust?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted, shocked. "He's done a hell of a lot for you, you ungrateful bastard. It's a miracle he still let's you help on cases." John got up from the table and strode out the kitchen, leaving his half-empty cup behind.

"That's because he needs me there!" he heard Sherlock holler back, but he made no attempt to answer. He marched back to his room and found Sherlock's phone discarded on the floor. Hesitantly, he picked it up and dialled a number, then held it to his ear.

After a few rings, someone answered.

" _Sherlock? That you?_ "

"No, Greg, it's John." the doctor answered,

" _Oh, morning, John. How are you?"_ He could hear surprised and almost anxiousness in the DI's voice, and John grimaced.

"I'm fine thanks, what about yourself?"

" _Great, I'm great. Work's been busy and I could sure as hell use a holiday, but hey. How's Sherlock? He feeling better? He texted me earlier for a case or two but I've been too busy to answer._ "

"Er... yeah, yeah he's good..."

 _"John? Something wrong?_ "

"No, no, nothing's wrong. Well, nothing's improved, but it hasn't gotten worse."

 _"John, you're worrying me. What's going on?_ "

The older man sighed, passing a hand over his face. "Sherlock relapsed." he said firmly, then shut his eyes.

There was silence on the other end for a while. A _long_ while. Twice, John pulled the phone away from his ear to check he was still connected. "Greg?" he asked nervously, "You still there?"

" _Yeah, I'm still here, John_." Lestrade's voice was distant and quiet, and the doctor wanted nothing more than to hang up, but the explanation Greg was owed was too long overdue.

" _When?_ " John was jolted from his thoughts once the DI spoke.

"Er, around three months ago."

" _Which happened to be around the time Sherlock 'injured' himself?_ "

"Yeah..."

" _But that didn't actually happen._ "

"Greg–"

" _Why are you only telling me now?_ "

"Sherlock didn't want you to worry–"

 _"Bullshit, John. Tell me the truth_."

John pursed his lips. "He thinks you'll refuse him cases." he answered.

 _"Idiot._ " he heard the DI mutter.

"Greg, look, I'm sorry–"

" _Has this happened before and I didn't know?_ "

John winced.

" _John? Oh, for God's sake, it has, hasn't it?_ "

"Greg–"

"John?" The doctor spun, his heart plummeting, to see Sherlock stood in the doorway, staring at him with a frown and an expression of growing anger.

"Who are you talking to?" he growled.

"Sherlock–"

" _John? Are you listening to me?_ "

"What? Yes, I'm listening. Look, we should've told you–"

"No, we shouldn't have." Sherlock interrupted menacingly. "I can't believe you'd disobey–"

" _Disobey_?" John hissed, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you directly ignored my orders and went off on your own!"

" _Ignored your orders_? Jesus, Sherlock, I am not your servant! You do not get to _order_ me around, do you understand?"

" _Sorry, John, are you busy?_ " Lestrade's tinny voice erupted from the phone, " _Well perhaps I should call back at a time when you're swamped in your work. Oh no, wait, that's not you, that's_ me."

John turned away from Sherlock. "No, Greg, I'm sorry. I know this isn't a great time, and I've just dropped a bombshell on you–"

" _Damn right you have. I've just found out that my best mate has been lying to me for God knows how long! Did you really think I'd react well to this?_ "

"No, of course not. I–"

" _I'm going now, John, I've got things to do. Speak to you later._ " The DI's cold voice cut off at the other end, leaving John to listen to the dial tone. He sighed and hung up, tossing the phone onto his bed. He heard Sherlock clear his throat behind him.

"Don't even bother, Sherlock, because I'm really not in the mood for this, and I may say something I'll later regret."

"No, I'm going to say my piece." Sherlock said stonily. "I told you phoning Lestrade would bring no good to us, and then you went and did it anyway!" As he spoke, he slowly advanced towards the small doctor. "You betrayed my trust and I don't think you realise how grave you've made this situation. Lestrade is _never_ going to hand me a case again, and it's all. Your. Fault."

"You'll still get clients from my blog–"

" _Don't_ interrupt me. And all those people who are stupid enough to read that pathetic blog of yours bring dull and mind-numbingly easy cases for me to solve."

"I doubt Henry Knight would agree–"

"Didn't you hear me the first time?" Sherlock's eyes were burning with fury as he towered above John, but the ex-soldier met his gaze steadily.

"I hope you're happy, John Watson, because you have ruined _everything_ ; I have lost everything thanks to you, and I don't think I ever want to speak to you again."

John glared back at him. "Fine," he murmured, refusing to break eye contact. "See if I care."

With that, he barged past Sherlock and stormed out of the room, down the corridors and the stairs, and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. At the back of his mind, he vaguely noted that both he and Sherlock only really used this room and his bedroom, and also that hiding in the kitchen didn't say as much as hiding in his bedroom, but then another part of him noted that he couldn't hide in his bedroom because Sherlock was in there. So kitchen it was.

With yet another sigh, he turned and leant his back against the door, then slowly slid down it until he was sat on the floor.

This was turning out to be a very bad day. John didn't think he'd ever had a day as bad as this. He doubted anyone had.

Now he was slightly regretting his decision to tell Greg. He'd known the DI would be angry – who could blame him? – but John had never heard him sound so cold. He could only imagine how many times Greg had had to deal with a drug-addled Sherlock before he came along.

Speaking of Sherlock, he could hear muffled thumps coming from his room, and he prayed the detective hadn't thrown his phone, otherwise there would be no communication to the outside world whatsoever.

He felt truly sorry for his flatmate. Yes, he was also furious with him, but he could kind of see where the younger man's anger came from, and he knew Sherlock tended to lash out at anything – in this instance, John and his "pathetic" blog. Though he _had_ ignored Sherlock's preference to keeping Greg out of the loop, but he'd felt that Lestrade should at least have known what was going on, whether he liked it or not.

But maybe he had just destroyed Sherlock's... career? Passion? He knew they would still receive the odd client from his blog, but Lestrade provided most of the cases. And anyway, the numbers of readers on his blog would dwindle because of the lack of cases he'd write up.

John didn't know how long he sat there, head in hands, fingers raking through his hair. Eventually, the noises from his room died down, and he heard Sherlock's brief footsteps as he moved from John's room to his. A loud slam of the door. John closed his eyes. A thump on the wall as Sherlock hit it. John tugged at his hair. A squeak as Sherlock collapsed onto his bed. John let out a long sigh. Yes, this was a very bad day indeed.

An hour and a half passed before John finally pushed himself up from the floor. He numbly put the cups of tea, lying abandoned since earlier, into the sink and washed them, then left them on the drainer and walked out the kitchen. He paused outside Sherlock's room and raised his hand to knock, but thought against it, knowing he was the last person Sherlock wanted to see.

 _I don't think I ever want to speak to you again_.

Precisely. With a sinking heart, John moved back to his room and shut the door gently, pressing his forehead against it for a moment. When he turned around, he froze on the spot.

"Mycroft." John muttered when he saw the government official sitting on the edge of his bed. He moved forward slightly, but stopped again when Mycroft looked up at him with a cold and stern gaze.

"Doctor Watson," he said icily, "I think it's time you left us. For good."


	6. Pledging and Allegiance

John stared at Mycroft, stunned.

"What?" he asked, not trusting his ears.

Mycroft sighed. "You heard me perfectly the first time, Doctor, I'm not going to repeat myself."

"Yes, I heard that bit. What I meant was, _what_ do you mean, it's time I left you for good?"

"I mean, I no longer want you interacting with my brother. Ever."

"That's crazy! You're overreacting, Mycroft, you can't honestly be saying you want me gone?"

"I assure you, that's exactly what I'm saying." The elder Holmes stood up from the bed and leant on his umbrella. "You've as good as betrayed him, John, and I think Sherlock would agree when I say your absence won't be missed."

"He needs me." John said firmly.

"Not anymore." Mycroft countered. "I can easily find a replacement. You are replaceable."

"Mycroft, you're taking this too seriously. All I did was tell Greg–"

"Thus ending Sherlock's career." The government official finished. "Believe me, John, it would be much better if you left."

"What, back to Baker Street, and await Sherlock's return? You're being ridiculous–"

"No, you won't be returning to Baker Street. I can easily set up a residence for you elsewhere in London. Perhaps Kensington? You could get a job there as a doctor at the clinics, which pay there much better than where you are now, and–"

"Do you hear yourself, Mycroft?" John seethed, "This is absurd! After everything Sherlock and I have been through over the past five years, and _this_ is what tips you over the edge? Greg will come round eventually, I know he will."

"You've never betrayed my brother before, though, have you? That's what I thought. Doctor, your bags have already been packed–" Sure enough, there were two duffel bags at the end of the bed, "–so there really is no point in arguing."

"And you really expect me to leave, just like that? I'm not going to do that, Mycroft. If I've ruined things for Sherlock as badly as you say I have, then I am going to stay here and try to make amends. I'm not coming with you, I'm sorry."

Mycroft grimaced. "I feared you'd say that." he said. "Brownley, if you would."

He gestured to someone behind John, but before the doctor had time to turn around, a strong hand covered his mouth and nose with a cloth, smelling of something sickly and sweet. John instinctively knew what it was, and he immediately fought back, elbowing who he assumed to be one of Mycroft's agents in the stomach. The man grunted but only tightened his grip. John aimed a kick at his legs but Brownley dodged him. The doctor clawed at the strong arm, but it was to no avail.

Just as he was sinking, he heard the agent whisper in his ear.

"Sorry about this, Captain." And then he fell into the darkness, losing consciousness before he hit the floor.

* * *

Fred Brownley sighed in both relief and remorse as he felt John Watson go limp in his grasp. He caught the light doctor easily before he struck his head, and then he gently lowered the light soldier to the ground.

"Excellent work, Agent Brownley." he heard Mr. Holmes say. "And a clever idea, hiding in the corridor."

"Thank you, sir." he grunted, still recovering from the blow Captain Watson had shot at his abdomen.

"He didn't get you too hard, I hope?"

"Not at all, sir. Won't even bruise." he lied.

"Good." Mycroft answered.

Before the two of them had a chance to say anything, there was a loud knock on the door.

"What are you doing, John? I'm trying to think." Sherlock's cold, deep, baritone voice resonated through the wood, and Brownley immediately leapt into action, not giving Mycroft a chance to tell him what to do. He had noticed a long, antique-looking partition in the corner of the bedroom furthest from the door, and he wasted no time in hauling the Captain over his shoulder and hurrying behind the partition. Brownley propped the unconscious soldier against the wall, and he crept closer to the wooden barricade, peering through the slits of wood to see into the room.

He watched as Mycroft stepped forward and opened the door to reveal his younger brother.

Sherlock swept inside, but stopped in his tracks when he was met with the elder Holmes.

"Mycroft?" he asked incredulously. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was trying to persuade – futilely, I might add – Doctor Watson to stay here." he lied smoothly. Brownley shifted uncomfortably, glancing across at his lifeless companion.

He respected the Captain deeply, and if he was honest, when Mycroft first approached him to ask him to drug and remove John Watson, he had hesitated. Normally, he would've agreed to anything without any qualms, but Captain Watson was someone who he admired to no ends, especially as the good doctor had saved his nephew's life in Afghanistan.

This was now the second time he'd come face to face with the soldier. The first time being in Switzerland, when agents swarmed into the helicopter he was sat in carrying an unconscious and frozen doctor. The man had looked dead already, and Brownley could remember as he approached Mycroft the look of genuine concern on his face when he'd found Sherlock's flatmate.

Now though, the elder Holmes' face had arranged into its well-known mask of indifference.

"John's gone?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows knitting into a look of confusion and all previous traces of anger vanishing. Brownley then noticed that the detective wrinkled his nose slightly, as if smelling something unknown.

"I'm afraid so." Mycroft answered. "He asked me to find someplace for him to stay for now until he can think things over."

"Wha–I don't... understand." he finished lamely.

Mycroft almost looked saddened. "I don't expect you to, Sherlock." he said. "But what does this say about John? That he would leave when you need him most?"

Brownley frowned, disliking this situation more and more. Mr. Holmes was using John's words against him, and Brownley wished he had the guts to do something, anything. He wasn't sure what kept him crouched in that position behind the partition; maybe it was a fear of Mycroft, or maybe it was just plain cowardice. Whatever it was, it kept Brownley hidden.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "He wouldn't..."

"But we can't deny the evidence. I'm sorry, Sherlock but we're going to have to forget John Watson for now and focus on your recovery."

The detective nodded slightly, eyes distant. "I... told him I never wanted to speak to him again." he mumbled.

"I know, Sherlock. I saw the footage." For once, Sherlock didn't comment about his brother's methods, nor did he flinch when Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder, and something churned uncomfortably in Brownley's stomach. He'd never seen Mr. Holmes look so... fake. This scared him more than any time he'd seen Mycroft angry, and he didn't wish Mycroft's anger on anyone.

"I'm going to leave now, Sherlock, I've matters to attend to–" Brownley grimaced, "–so why don't you lie down somewhere? I'm sure you're still suffering from insomnia, hmm?"

Sherlock nodded again and let Mycroft walk past him out the door, but then he caught his brother's sleeve. Mycroft paused and glanced at Sherlock expectantly.

"I don't... I don't think his blog's pathetic." he said quietly. "Would you tell him? If you see him?"

"Of course." the elder Holmes answered, before leaving.

Brownley watched as Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, before he too left. The agent let out a long sigh and passed a hand over his face, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

His phone vibrating in his pocket startled him out of his thoughts, and he took it out to read the new text.

_Well done for remaining quiet, Agent. You know what to do know. My brother has returned to his room, so be sure to make as little noise as possible. I'll meet you at our address, so do not attempt to contact me – MH_

Brownley pursed his lips as he pocketed his phone, deciding to wait five minutes before making a move.

A sudden moan from behind him caused Brownley to look behind him, and he noted with alarm Captain Watson's slow awakening. Not unlike Sherlock, he ran his hand through his thick brown hair in agitation, then crawled forward and pressed a finger against the soldier's neck. The man's pulse was beginning to increase, and Brownley hurriedly withdrew the handkerchief he was carrying and doused it in some more chloroform.

John's eyelids fluttered, and his eyes opened wearily, blue orbs gazing up at the agent.

"Wha–?" the soldier croaked, but Brownley cut him off.

"Shh, Captain. You're alright." he said as he screwed on the bottle to the chloroform.

"Where's Sh'lock? Wha's goin' on?" John pushed himself forward, his mind telling him to stand, but his legs failing to cooperate, causing him to list forward. Brownley caught him and propped him back against the wall.

"Mr Holmes is fine, don't worry. You're both fine. Don't talk."

John ignored him. "Who're–?"

"I'm the agent you elbowed in the stomach," Brownley answered, and he noted with some amusement that a vague sense of recognition gleamed in John's eyes. "Now stop talking."

Brownley quickly pressed the chloroform to the Captain's mouth before he could regain his strength, and he was almost relieved to see that the soldier still struggled, though it was feeble and did nothing to stop Brownley. Eventually, John slumped again, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Brownley put the chloroform away with a grimace; he hated the stuff, but it was one of the safest methods of keeping someone unconscious, provided it wasn't used too much.

The agent then moved from behind the partition and crept to the bedroom door, peering out to check that no one was there. When he was certain that nobody would surprise him, he hurried back to the Captain and pulled him over his shoulder again, the doctor's head gently bumping against his lower back. He firmly grasped the unconscious man's legs with one burly arm, then silently opened the door and stepped out, hurrying along the corridor and down the stairs.

He heard a door open behind him, and could only assume that Sherlock had poked his head out having heard something, and this caused Brownley to increase his speed, missing the odd step as he all but leapt down the stairs.

Then there were footsteps following him, echoing as someone followed him down. They were not running, but they weren't walking at a leisurely pace, either. Brownley lightly jogged down the last corridor until he finally reached a back door.

As planned, the door was open and he wasted no time in running through and closing, then locking it behind him. Glancing through the window, he saw Sherlock round a corner at the beginning of the corridor, but Brownley was gone before the detective had a chance to spot him.

The agent carried John down the back path until he reached an off-road jeep. He gently laid the Captain along the backseats, then made his way to the front, clambering in and starting the engine.

He wasn't going to let Mycroft go through with this, he decided as the car jolted and bounced along an uneven road, and he had to glance in the rear-view mirror to check John was still there. Neither the Captain nor the younger Holmes deserved this, and he would make sure they were reunited, however long that might be.

Brownley didn't notice, as he reached a main road and waited for an opportunity to pull out, the silver car that turned into the road he was on. Brownley also didn't notice the sliver-haired driver behind the wheel, with a determined and cold look on his face.


	7. Where Loyalties Lie

Sherlock was startled awake suddenly by the ringing of the doorbell. He untangled himself from his blanket and sat up on the sofa.

"John?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and standing up. He blearily looked around the living room before striding out and hurrying to the front door. Eagerly, he drew out the key he had snatched from one of Mycroft's agents and unlocked it. He threw open the door, then stared dumbfounded at the last person he expected to see.

"Lestrade?" he asked, not believing his eyes.

The Detective Inspector looked at him with a frown. "You look like shit." he said, brushing past Sherlock and into the living room.

"I feel like it." Sherlock murmured. "What are you doing here?" He followed Greg into the kitchen and watched as the DI placed two carrier bags – one of which smelled suspiciously like Italian food – on the table.

"I'm here to get some answers." he said, turning to face Sherlock.

"How did you get here?"

"By aeroplane, genius."

"No," Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. "How did you know I was here?"

At this, Lestrade looked almost guilty. "When John called me and told me you'd relapsed, I had someone trace the call. It led to here." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, not because he was shocked, but because he was impressed.

"And besides," Greg continued. "I told John I needed a holiday, and here I am. Where is he, by the way?"

"He's not here." Sherlock answered coldly.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"I mean he's left. Gone."

"Gone where?" Lestrade asked, frowning. Sherlock shrugged, feigning indifference.

"Do you know why?"

"We had an argument." the detective answered, moving back into the living room. Greg was not far behind.

"That's it? John wouldn't leave after that, what did you do?"

Sherlock rounded on the DI. "Why do you assume it was something _I_ did?"

"Because it usually is! What happened?"

The younger man sighed. "I... said some things I probably shouldn't have."

"Such as?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it bloody well does." The DI shot back. "John wouldn't leave over something unimportant. Do you know the first thing he did when he told me the truth about you relapsing?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"He tried to cover your sorry little arse by saying you didn't want me to worry. It was crap, and he must've known it, but he said it anyway. And now you're telling me he left over things you said that 'don't matter'? That's worse than what he told me. So I'll ask again. What. Did. You. Say?"

Sherlock mumbled incoherently.

"Say again?"

The detective sighed. "I told him he'd ruined everything and that I never wanted to speak to him again... I also said I thought his blog was pathetic."

Lestrade stared at him, mouth open in shock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean it, obviously–"

The DI interrupted him. "But you said it anyway." he said, an icy glint in his eyes. "You don't get it, do you?" He ran his hands through his hair. "You know what? I'm not going to even try and explain it to you." He moved over to the couch and sat down.

"I still don't think John would've left because of that." he said in a softer tone. "Mycroft hasn't done anything?"

Sherlock frowned. "How did you–?"

"Of course you're brother's involved in this. I'm not that stupid. Though I am surprised he didn't try and stop me from coming. I thought maybe he'd turn my plane around mid-flight." he added with a smirk.

Sherlock shrugged. "He told me he was busy doing something else." he said, then he frowned.

Greg looked up at him. "What is it?" he asked.

"I – er – there was a smell in John's room... I've been trying to place it..." he trailed off, lost in thought.

"Well, whatever it was, I'm sure you'll get it soon. You've got the nose of a ruddy bloodhound." he muttered.

"What are in those bags?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the abrupt subject change. He got up from the sofa and moved into the kitchen, where Sherlock already was, slowly circling the table where the carrier bags were.

"Well, one of them, as you've probably guessed already, is some Italian takeaway." Sherlock nodded to show he knew this already. The detective stopped at the far end of the table, leaning against it.

"And the other," Lestrade dug around in the bag and then pulled out three thick manila files. "Are some cold cases I thought you might want. _But_ ," he added when Sherlock reached forwards with his hands outstretched and a lustful gleam in his eyes, "You can only have them once you've told me what happened between you and John, and then what caused you to end up here in the first place."

Sherlock opened his mouth, about to retort, but seemed to see sense. He resorted to glaring at Lestrade instead. The DI grinned victoriously.

* * *

"Can I trust you to take things from here, Brownley?"

"Of course, sir."

Brownley stood next to Mycroft and both of them gazed out of the French window from the Hotel Heiligenstein, situated about 50 kilometres from the cabin. John Watson was lying unconscious atop the double bed behind them, and Brownley glanced back at him, before facing Mycroft.

"Sir, can I ask why you're doing this?"

Mycroft frowned across at him. "You know why I'm doing this." he said.

"Yes, sir, but..." he sighed, unable to get his words straight. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Brownley took a deep breath.

"Mycroft," he began, "I've known you since we were kids, and I don't understand why you're acting so cold towards Captain Watson. I pride myself on knowing you better than most people, and you must know that I'd follow you into hell. But this..." he trailed off and sighed again.

"Brownley," the elder Holmes began, but Brownley shook his head.

"What, would you say, is the thing you regret the most in life?" he asked calmly.

Mycroft gave him a piercing look. "You know what it is." he said solemnly.

"Right. But it was _me_ who gave you the initial idea to sell Sherlock out. Yes, I know everything worked out in the end, but you didn't know that at the time, and I can still remember the amount of grief you showed when Captain Watson called you that day to tell you your brother had just jumped off a building. And that was because of _me_."

"I haven't blamed you–" Mycroft started to say, but he was cut off.

"I know that, Mycroft, but I would have preferred it if you have. I recall about an hour after you visited the hospital, you came back to the office and fixed me with one of the coldest stares I'd ever seen. I tell you, if looks could kill... Anyway, I could tell you still distrusted me–"

"Fred, I never–"

"Yes, you did, Mycroft, and I'm not criticising you for it. But then there was a mission, about a few months after your brother's so-called 'death'. You remember, right?"

"Of course I do, but–"

"You saved my life that night, Mycroft. After everything I put you through, you were the last person I was expecting to come into that warehouse. I thought I was hallucinating at first; the amount of blood lost would have been enough, but when I woke up in the hospital two weeks later, you were sat in the chair next to my bed asleep. And then I knew you had forgiven me."

"What are you getting at, Fred?" he asked quietly.

"You saved John Watson, once. In Switzerland. Don't tell me you've forgotten. Agent Bradley told me that you were speaking to Sherlock in the helicopter ride to the hospital, and you were telling him to never let the Captain go.

"And that's why I can't fathom why you're doing this now, after everything he's done for your brother. He's devoted to Sherlock. Remember when he stormed into your club after he'd worked out what you'd told James Moriarty? Not many people would have the guts to do that. And I know Sherlock is just as loyal to him. You only have to look at the Killer Evans case to see.

"All I'm trying to say is, I don't think this is wise. You don't want the wrath of both Sherlock and John aimed at you, when this all comes out."

"Who says it will come out?" Mycroft asked.

Brownley sighed. "You can't expect this to remain quiet forever."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on how well we can control it."

"Mycroft–"

"Did you see the way Sherlock reacted when he found out what Doctor Watson had done? He was absolutely furious, and no one has ever been able to do that to him. An unstable Sherlock is dangerous, Fred, and I want the doctor out the way so I can better control him."

"You don't get it, Mycroft. You take John Watson from him, and he'll go off the rails. Everyone can see how much of a moral compass the Captain is to your brother, but no one will be able to control him if he's on his own.

"You saw him a few hours ago, and already he was calming down. He was almost regretful for what he'd done. Only John would be able to do that to him."

Mycroft looked back at John, but said nothing.

"There's got to be another reason for this." Brownley said.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said quietly, still watching the unconscious doctor, "If John shows remorse for what he's done, I will reconsider my decision."

Brownley pinched his nose. "You know that won't happen. The man's stubborn through and through, he's not going to apologise for something he thinks was right."

"We'll see." Mycroft hummed.

"Just use this as an excuse to teach Sherlock a lesson."

The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Can't you remember the last time I pulled a stunt like that?" he asked.

"Well even I'll admit I thought kidnapping and torturing John to prove a point was a little extreme."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Carry on as normal, Agent." he said, closing off all emotions. "I want the Doctor gone by the end of the week."

Brownley sighed as Mycroft walked past him and out the door. "Yes, sir." he muttered, pulling out his phone with one more glance at Captain Watson.

* * *

"I didn't want to, at first." Sherlock said, sat opposite Lestrade at the kitchen table. Both of them were picking at their takeaway, the extra one forgotten in the bin.

"You remember how myself and John were trying to take down the smuggling ring, operating around London?"

Greg nodded, swallowing a forkful of spaghetti.

"The drug lord that I unmasked and handed over to Dimmock was someone I knew..."

"So?" Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock sighed, " _So_ , I suppose I got caught up with... memories, so to speak, and I started craving a fix badly."

The DI watched him, eyebrows raised. "That's it?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered.

"That's pathetic." Greg stated. "You risked your friendship with John all because you got 'caught up with memories'?"

"It would seem so."

"You moron... Have you told John this?"

"No."

"Do you plan to?"

Sherlock didn't answer, merely kept his eyes downcast and twiddled his fork around the spaghetti.

"Really, Sherlock? After everything you two have done? Why refuse to tell him this?"

"It's... humiliating."

Greg's eyebrows fell, and he looked at Sherlock sympathetically.

"Sherlock," he said gently. "John would forgive you for that. Hell, he was there when you were drugged by Miss Adler, and you refused to let him leave your side until you passed out on him halfway up the stairs. I tell you, you're real heavy for someone who doesn't eat much."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Sherlock's face. Greg returned the smile.

"Now then," he said, "How about we finish our meal, then find a way of contacting John?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

Just as Greg raised another forkful to his mouth, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. With a small sigh, he put the fork down and withdrew his phone.

 _Watch the CCTV. Hasn't yet been disabled, but will be soon_.

The DI frowned at his mobile. Sherlock caught his expression, and snatched the phone from the Inspector's grip. Greg made no move to stop him.

"Do you know who sent this?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"From the expression on my face I would've thought you'd know the answer to that question." Greg answered, shaking his head as he spoke.

"Did you bring your laptop?"

"Yeah, it's in the car. I'll go get it." The DI left the table and hurried from the room. A few moments later, Sherlock heard the front door close.

 _Watch the CCTV_. Who had sent that text? Sherlock hadn't known they were being watched until this morning, when Mycroft told him he'd seen the footage of his and John's fight. Was that what this person wanted them to see? It seemed the most likely, but Sherlock had been _there_ , during the argument, he wouldn't have missed anything. Unless it was something that happened after.

No, that had been him again. He'd stayed in John's room and thrown a few things, then migrated to his own room and punched the wall. He had a bruised hand to show for that. So was he supposed to watch the footage of after he left the room? Maybe.

And then suddenly it hit him. The smell he'd vaguely recognised but couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Chloroform." Sherlock hissed.

"What?" The detective jumped when Lestrade entered the kitchen, carrying his laptop.

"The smell I was trying to work out. It was _chloroform_."

"Really?" Greg put the laptop on the table and turned to face Sherlock.

"Yes, really. John must've been drugged, then taken." Relief flooded through his veins – not at the fact that John had been kidnapped, but because the doctor hadn't left of his own accord.

But then Greg brought everything crashing down around him by saying, "But who kidnapped him? From what I understand Mycroft told you he'd seen John leave himself. Why would Mycroft...? Oh, shit." he whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, eyes blazing, fury replacing the relief he'd felt moments before. " _Mycroft_ took John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's unlikely that from the time Lestrade got the phone call from John, he hopped on a plane to Germany and drove to the Black Forest all in the space of around two hours, but I couldn't think of anything else to fill the time.


	8. Out of the Frying Pan, into the Fire

John woke slowly and with a low groan. He cracked his eyes open and frowned, taking in his surroundings. He was on a bed in a... hotel? It looked like one. He pushed himself up and immediately regretted it. Pressing his hands to his forehead he leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Waves of nausea coursed through him and another groan escaped him.

"Are you going to throw up?"

John jumped and his head snapped up. This time he ignored the dizziness and scrutinised the person stood in front of him. Late thirties, maybe. Thick brown hair, bright green eyes, a small scar above his left eye. He was wearing black uniform with black military boots. John regarded him with an air of suspicion.

"No." he murmured, looking around. "No, I'm not going to throw up."

"Do you want some paracetamol?"

"It's fine." he said. As if he was going to take anything this man gave him. "Where am I?"

"The Hotel Heiligenstein."

"Right." John muttered. "Sorry, who are you?"

"Fred Brownley." the man answered.

"Brownley..." he said to himself. The name seemed familiar. "Do I know you?" he asked, glancing up.

Brownley hesitated. "We've never met." he said. "But I know who you are."

"I gathered that." John said. "That didn't answer my question, though."

The agent sighed, preparing himself. "I work for Mycroft." he said.

And then everything came back to John. The fight with Sherlock, sitting in the kitchen, finding Mycroft in his room, and then... nothing. Someone had snuck up on him, and...

"I elbowed you in the stomach, didn't I?"

Brownley smiled. _Smiled_? John thought to himself. _Why was he smiling?_

"Yes, you did." he answered. "Hard."

"Oh." was all John said. "So, Mycroft had you take me here?"

"Yes, and he expects me to send you back to England."

The doctor frowned, not liking the idea of that at all. "But...?" he prompted, noting the agent's hesitancy.

Brownley took a breath. "But I'm not going to." he answered firmly.

"What?" John asked incredulously.

"I don't agree with Mycroft's plan, so I'm not going to take you to England. I think he's overreacting about everything, and so I'll try and find a way to smuggle you back into the clinic until I sort everything out."

John stared at him, dumbfounded. "You realise," he said slowly. "That Mycroft is probably going to have you assassinated or something when he finds out."

Brownley grimaced. "Yes," he said. "And I could tell you the people he'll choose to do it, as well. Hopefully he'll see sense soon, and appreciate that taking you wasn't the best move."

"I'll say." John muttered.

"I think he's paranoid." Fred said. "I can't say for sure, because you can never tell with a Holmes," John nodded in agreement. "But he told me that he'd never seen Sherlock so out of control when he knew you'd contacted DI Lestrade. And I think that scared Mycroft, knowing you could do something like that to him. This is just his way of doing some control damage."

"And it worked, to an extent." John said. "Sherlock got his wish."

"Wish?" Brownley asked, frowning.

"You didn't hear what he said? That he never wanted to speak to me again? I don't think bringing me back is such a good idea."

The agent shook his head. "You're wrong." he said gently. "You were unconscious when he came into the bedroom, and therefore you didn't see him look genuinely sorry, or hear him say that he didn't mean it."

"Still..." John said, but Brownley cut him off.

"The Inspector is with him at the moment, and they both know what Mycroft's done." At John's sharp look, Brownley smiled a little. "Neither of them is very happy, I think it's safe to say."

"Sherlock was going to find out sooner or later." John said.

"And Mycroft was hoping for later, if not never."

"He really thought this wouldn't get out?" The doctor asked, shaking his head as he did so.

"Yeah, and I tried to bring him around, but his stubborn streak came through and he refused. Which is why I'm taking things into my own hands, and I'm actually about to meet Inspector Lestrade at a cafe in twenty minutes." he said, glancing at his watch.

"Can I come with you?" John asked.

"Afraid not. I can't risk you being seen by someone else working for Mycroft. Likewise, Sherlock isn't going with the Inspector."

"Alright." John said resignedly, knowing that was the answer he was going to get. "Will you tell me what happens, though?"

"Certainly." Brownley said as he headed for the door.

* * *

"Inspector, thank you for coming." Brownley and Lestrade shook hands as they sat at the table by the window of the cafe a few miles from the Black Forest.

"It's fine. Agent Brownley, is it?" Greg asked.

Brownley raised his eyebrows. "Yes, how did you know?"

"Sherlock said you would be the agent most likely to go rogue." he answered.

Fred rolled his eyes, "I'm not going rogue _per say_ , just... I'm not sure _what_ I'm doing but I still hope to work for Mycroft after this has blown over."

Greg nodded. "Fair enough. What did you want to see me for?"

Brownley clasped his hands together. "I need your help to get John back to the clinic." he said.

"Alright. What are you thinking?"

"Mycroft has cameras hidden in the majority of the rooms in the clinic, though he rarely watches them. It was only because another agent pointed out John and Sherlock's argument that he knew at all. The camera in Captain Watson's bedroom is going to be disabled soon in the hopes that you or Sherlock don't see the footage, though I take it you have already watched it?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, we did. Sherlock threw a right tantrum afterwards. He's baying for his brother's blood at the moment."

Brownley smiled grimly. "I don't think John's particularly pleased right now either, though he's hiding it well. So anyway, because John's bedroom is no longer being watched, it would be easy to get him in via that way. Through the window."

"Right." Greg said, "Anything else?"

"Yes. You need to tell Sherlock that he can't be spending too long in John's room when the Captain is back, because it will start to look suspicious. I'm planning on somehow destroying the CCTV links, so that John can get out of the room. Mycroft's busy doing something else at the moment, so no one will dare tell him the satellite's gone down, meaning the problem's got to be sorted between the people in security.

"At this point, the three of you are going to get out. Mycroft already knows you're there, Inspector, and I don't think he's all that fussed. Now that the halfway mark has gone, he's beginning to be more lenient towards Sherlock."

"Besides taking his best friend from him, that is." Lestrade said begrudgingly.

"Agreed. But as I was saying, you three are going to get out and head down the track path that leads to the main road. I'll be there to pick you up and then we'll go to a hotel or something and work out what to do from there."

"That plan isn't great..." Greg said, frowning.

"I know, but it's the best we've got. Unless you or Sherlock have any better ideas, that's what's going to happen."

"It'll have to do." said Lestrade. "Well, I'll get back to Sherlock and tell him what's what, and then I guess we'll just wait for John to arrive."

"I'll be there with him in about two hours or so."

Greg nodded. "See you soon, then, Agent." he smiled, shaking hands again. The two left the cafe together and then parted ways.

* * *

"Well?" John practically pounced on Brownley when he walked through the door.

"Yeah, just give me a second." Brownley said, closing the door behind him. He turned back to John, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and eagerly waiting for Brownley to speak.

"We'll be heading to the clinic in about half an hour." he said with a smile.

"Really?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

"Really. You'll go in through the bedroom window, where the camera is no longer working, and wait for a few hours until the rest of the cameras go down. I'll send the Inspector a text when that happens, and they'll come and get you. You'll get out the clinic and I'll take you three elsewhere."

"That's it?" John asked.

Brownley sighed. "Yes, that's it. Problem?"

"No, no. It's fine." John raised his hands in defence.

"Good." The agent sat on the sofa opposite the bed and pursed his lips, obviously thing about something.

"Can I ask you something?" John asked, clearing his throat first to get Brownley's attention.

"Sure. What's the matter?" Brownley glanced across at the doctor, waiting for him to speak.

"Why did you call me Captain?" he questioned, watching the agent closely.

Brownley frowned. "When?"

"I remembered waking up briefly, and we were both hiding behind something. You came over and said something to me – I don't remember exactly what it was, but I do remember you called me Captain, afterwards. Why?"

Brownley shrugged. "You were referred to me as 'Captain Watson' for so long, that it just stuck in my head, I guess."

"Who called me 'Captain Watson'?" John asked, his interest piqued. "Surely not Mycroft?"

"No, not Mycroft. My nephew. Edward Brownley."

 _That's probably where I know the name from_ , John mused. "Your nephew was in the Army?"

Brownley nodded. "You saved his life." he said, clearly hoping for some recognition.

John thought for a moment. "Bullet to his leg wasn't it?" he asked.

The agent's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes it was." he prompted.

John was nodding. "Mmm, I remember now. He was what, twenty?"

"Twenty-two." Brownley corrected, smiling.

"Yeah... He didn't pass out at all, not until I gave him a general anaesthetic." he said, also smiling. "I think he was the first soldier who actually listened when I told him not to close his eyes."

Brownley laughed. "He hasn't stopped talking about you for the past years. Whenever someone asks about his experiences in Afghanistan, he won't forget to mention the time when 'Captain Watson saved my life with a bullet in his shoulder'. Is it true?"

"That I was shot in my shoulder then? Yeah, it was. Luckily, some other soldiers managed to get to us just as I collapsed." John grimaced, clearly recalling it. He shook the memories away, then looked back at Brownley. "Maybe I'll see him again, see how the leg's doing."

"He'd like that." Fred all but grinned, nodding as well.

Before either of them could say anything else, Brownley's phone rang, the shrill ringtone making the two jump. The agent pulled his mobile out his pocket and squinted at the caller ID.

"How could he know?" he murmured as he pressed answer, putting the phone to his ear.

"Sir?" he asked, standing up and preparing for the worst.

"Fred, I need you to get over to the clinic immediately." Mycroft's voice was urgent, and Brownley acted instantly, hurrying to the door and grabbing John's arm as he did so.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" He'd noted the elder Holmes use his first name, and knew from that that something bad was happening. John and Brownley raced down the corridor and towards the exit, the doctor not bothering to ask what was happening.

"The clinic's been set on fire." Mycroft said, and Brownley could hear noises in the background telling him that the government official was in a car and most probably speeding towards the Black Forest.

"Jesus Christ." Brownley muttered as John threw open his door then ran around to the driver's seat, Brownley sliding into the passenger's side. "Go to the clinic. Fast." he whispered to John, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

"What happened?" he asked Mycroft.

"Someone set fire to the building, and no, it wasn't Sherlock before you ask. I received a voice recording earlier this morning telling me that Sherlock's days were numbered – their words, not mine – so I had someone trace the call, and it was located in a house near Stuttgart. I've sent men to the destination, but just now I received a photo of the clinic in flames. You need to get there quickly, please. You're closer than I am."

"Of course, I'm in the car already." John was speeding down the motorway, dodging other vehicles whilst casting glances in Brownley's direction.

"And Fred... take John with you."

Brownley raised his eyebrows in shock, but then swallowed nervously. "He's, er, he's already with me."

"Of course he is." Brownley could hear Mycroft's smile in his voice, and he grinned. John frowned at him, but when the agent gave him a thumbs up, the doctor smiled slightly, too.

"I'll call you when we get there, Mycroft." Brownley promised before hanging up, putting his phone away with a sigh of relief. Everything would be alright. Well, besides the fire scenario and the possibility of his job on the line, but otherwise things were getting better.

"Agent? What's going on?" John asked desperately, and Brownley sobered immediately.

"The clinic's been set on fire by someone." he answered. "And going by Mycroft's willingness to have you there, it's bad."

John swore and increased the pressure on the accelerator. Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey, but Brownley called for more back up and the emergency services, just in case Mycroft had failed to do so.

By the time they reached the turn off to the clinic, they could see thick, black smoke billowing up from the trees. John didn't slow down as they bounced along the dirt path, and when they finally saw the building, John stopped the car in shock.

Flames were bursting out of almost every window, and already, some of the roof had caved in. Trees surrounding it had caught fire, and it wouldn't be long until the inferno spread further and further.

John leapt out of the car and made for the building, but Brownley's strong grip stopped him.

"Captain, wait." he said, and John turned impatiently.

"We're both going in there, OK?" Brownley said. John stared at him, mouth open. "We split up come back out when we've got Sherlock or the Inspector. If you find both of them, you yell for me, understood? No unnecessary heroics."

"Fine." John nodded and sprinted towards the building, wrenching his arm out of Brownley's grip.

He was only a few metres away from the front door when suddenly John was thrown backwards by a great fireball. He landed harshly on his back, and by the sounds of groaning next to him, Brownley had been hit as well. John looked back at the clinic, and his heart plummeted when he realised that the kitchen had just blown up and caused the blaze to become twice as stronger and higher. There were no shouts coming from the building and this only served to worry John more.

He staggered up, and after helping Brownley to his feet, the two of them ran as fast as they could towards the door and into the flames.


	9. No Second Thoughts

Fred Brownley tried not to think too much about all the things that could go wrong when he stormed through the door and into the blazing building. To his left he saw John begin scanning their surroundings in the hopes of seeing Sherlock or Inspector Lestrade, but so far there was no joy. Black smoke billowed around them and clouded their vision as they stumbled forwards and avoided falling debris.

"You search down here, I'll go upstairs!" John shouted. Brownley nodded and watched as the doctor gradually made his way towards the stairs, which were thankfully still intact.

"Inspector? Sherlock?" he shouted, hoping for a response, but getting none. Brownley looked around and tried desperately to see through the tall flames that grew ever closer. The heat was almost unbearable, and as he ran into another room, which must have once been the living room, he pressed his hand to his mouth, trying not to inhale the deadly smoke. His eyes were watering from the thick particles that jabbed at him, and Brownley furiously wiped at them, trying to clear his sight, though it didn't do much to help.

"Sherlock? Hello? Inspector?" he called again, but there was still no answer. "Is anyone there?"

And then he heard it. A muffled cough, somewhere near the back of the room. Brownley raced towards the sound, jumping over small flames and fallen beams, and dropped down next to a – conscious, thankfully – body.

Carefully rolling him onto his back, Brownley was relieved to see Inspector Lestrade's brown eyes squinting up at him.

"You're alright, Inspector. It's me, Agent Brownley, remember?" the agent said, grasping Lestrade's arm.

Greg nodded, wincing as he did so. "My leg..." he gasped, coughing and clutching at his left leg.

"Shh, it's alright. We'll get out, don't worry. I'm gonna sit you up, OK?"

When the DI nodded again, Brownley grasped his shoulders and gently raised him up. Greg hissed slightly, but that was it.

"Besides your leg what else hurts?" Fred asked, one eye on Greg whilst the other watched the towering flames getting closer.

"My head... hit it when I fell." he answered, coughing again in between the sentence. Now that Brownley looked closer, he noticed a deep gash near the Inspector's hairline, and this only served to make him act quicker.

"OK, we're going to stand up, and then get the hell out of here, alright?"

"Sherlock?" Greg asked, looking at the agent through irritated eyes for confirmation.

"He's with John." Brownley answered, deciding not to worry Lestrade anymore. "Ready?"

"Yeah..."

The agent put the Inspector's arm around his shoulders, and wound his own around Greg's waist, then ever so slowly stood up. Lestrade leaned heavily against Brownley, hopping slightly to gain his balance, until they were both standing.

"Good," Brownley soothed, "We'll go slowly, but you tell me if you need to stop, OK?"

"OK." Greg replied, and the two of them staggered over the burning wreckage, coughing and spluttering as smoke infiltrated their lungs.

"Nearly there." The agent muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. Greg grunted in affirmation but said nothing else. Brownley cast a glance in his direction and noted the paleness of the inspector's skin, despite the rising temperatures.

And then they were finally out. The fresh air blasted them as they stumbled out the front door and Greg chose that moment to collapse. His legs buckled underneath him, and he gasped as he fell, but Brownley tightened his grip and gently lowered the Inspector to a sitting position on the ground.

"Ambulance will be here soon. You alright?"

"Yeah, I think I sprained my ankle though." he said, his coughs subsiding now that clean oxygen was flooding him. He looked around and was surprised to note that there weren't many bystanders watching the scene like there usually were when he was called out to a fire. Then he noticed the absence of a consulting detective and army doctor.

"You said Sherlock was with John?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

Brownley shifted. "Yes, I did." he said. "But I didn't say they were out yet." he added guiltily.

Lestrade put his head in his hands, "Oh, God." he muttered.

"They'll be fine." Fred muttered. "They always are."

* * *

John could feel the wooded floorboards creaking underneath him as he reached the top of the stairs, having climbed them slowly to prevent the chance of going straight through the weakening boards.

Standing in the corridor, he moved to the side and glanced out of the window in time to see Brownley half dragging Greg from the inferno, and his heart lightened, knowing that he only had to focus on getting Sherlock out alive.

He headed straight towards his ex-bedroom – because he doubted the detective would have use for any of the other rooms – and dodged rogue flames that lashed out at him every so often. The blaze was the only source of light against the impenetrable black smoke and John used it as a way of guiding him to his bedroom, yet not moving so close that he would receive harsh burns for his efforts, which had already happened multiple times.

His bedroom door was open, which was a relief as this meant he didn't have to waste time and energy in trying to get in. His heart plummeted, however, at the sight of his best friend lying motionless on the floor next to the remains of John's bed.

"Sherlock!" John rushed forward towards him, but at that moment a loose beam came crashing down from above and made a direct hit against his shoulder. John went down with a sharp yell, such was the force of the beam, and landed on his front. A searing pain tore through his right shoulder, and his doctor-instincts unhelpfully pointed out that the shoulder was most probably dislocated. He told himself to shut up.

With a pain-filled groan, John pushed the burning beam off him – _yes it's_ _burning_ , _get rid of it quickly_ , his mind scolded. His jacket was sizzling from the impact, but he paid it no heed as he crawled towards Sherlock with his right arm held to his body.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" The detective was lying on his back with his head lolled to the side and this way John could see a deep wound along the left side of his temple, the blood from it cascading down his cheek. John pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck, hoping for a pulse, and was relieved to feel it flickering faintly beneath him.

"Sherlock? Come on, wake up." he muttered, trying to stifle his coughs, but the younger man didn't respond.

"Fine, be difficult then." John held both of Sherlock's arms, and, gritting his teeth against the pain in his own, lifted the detective over his left shoulder. He wasted no time in stumbling to his feet and going as fast as he could out the bedroom and into the corridor. The flames hadn't gotten higher, but nor had they gotten smaller. The black smoke was lingering near the ceiling, and was gradually getting closer and closer to John as he carried Sherlock towards the staircase.

Looking over the banister he could no longer recognise downstairs. The entire place was ablaze. He could hear the crackling of the flames as they tore at the wooded building, and this was enough to speed him up.

The stairs moaned as he thundered down them, no longer trying to be careful. The front door was open in front of him, and it was with a sigh of relief that he ran through it and into the open air. Fred Brownley rushed towards him, taking Sherlock and laying him on the ground. Lestrade made an effort to stand, but decided against it and instead crawled over.

"Where's the ambulance?" John gasped, pushing Sherlock's hair back and inspecting the wound closer.

"Should be here any minute." Brownley replied, looking to the sky as if the answer would be given there.

"Sherlock?" John focused his attention back on the detective when he saw his eyelids flutter.

"...John?" It came out as a hoarse whisper, but John caught it.

"I'm here. You're alright." he smiled, using one hand to grasp Sherlock's hand.

"...M'sorry..."

"None of that now." John interrupted. "We'll talk about it later."

"'Kay..." Sherlock's eyes had remained closed throughout the conversation, but now they opened slightly, those icy orbs gazing up at him.

"...Your head's... bleeding..." he murmured, brows creasing slightly.

"So is yours." he said softly.

In the distance, a faint whirring could suddenly be heard, and John looked up to see a helicopter heading directly towards them.

"You didn't say it was an air ambulance." he commented to Brownley.

"That's because I didn't know it was an air ambulance." he answered back, watching as the helicopter drew closer.

"...M'tired..." John heard Sherlock mutter. He squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"It's alright." John said. "Ambulance is here now, you can sleep." He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand back briefly before going limp in his grasp.

At that point, the helicopter touched down a few metres away and three paramedics jumped out, bearing a stretcher between them. Brownley ran over and directed them to John, Lestrade and Sherlock, and then he moved over to the helicopter to speak to someone inside.

The medics reached them and began work immediately, strapping Sherlock to a stretcher and rushing back to the helicopter. Brownley returned to John and Lestrade along with two more men carrying another stretcher.

"Why–?" Greg began to ask, but he stopped when the two men gently guided him to the stretcher on the floor.

"For your ankle." Brownley explained, arms crossed. "What?" he asked at Lestrade's expression. "You didn't expect me to let you hop over to the 'copter, did you?" He wasn't provided with an answer for the medics lifted him and rushed back to the helicopter.

"I'm going with them." John said, getting up with a wince. "What about you?" he questioned.

"Nah, I'll stay. Besides, Mycroft has yet to arrive, and I may as well face him sooner rather than later."

John grimaced, but it wasn't from the pain in his shoulder. "Good luck." he said grimly.

"Cheers." Brownley answered, watching as John ran over and climbed into the helicopter. It took off a few seconds later and soon disappeared out of sight. The sound of gravel being overturned behind him told him all he needed to know, and he spun to see a sleek black car pull up a dozen metres away.

He sighed as Mycroft got out and held the car door open for him, waiting for him with an emotionless expression. The sounds of fire engines in the distance echoed around the agent's head as he got in, dreading what was to come.

* * *

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Sherlock frowned, trying to dispel the infuriating beeping that brought him back to the present and away from the calm, quiet haze he had been in previously.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

With a groan, Sherlock forced open his eyes and squinted against the bright lights that invaded his vision. He closed his eyes quickly, relishing in the darkness, and allowed his other senses to come forward.

He could tell he was in a bed, but it wasn't the one he'd slept in at the clinic, and it definitely wasn't the one back at Baker Street. There was a dull throbbing across his chest and also in his head, and he tried to recall what had happened that landed him here. No luck.

Now prepared, Sherlock opened his eyes again, and allowed them to adjust to the bright lights. Eventually his vision cleared, and he knew immediately that he was in a hospital. A private room, going by the quietness of the place. The beeping of the heart monitor beside his bedside was the only noise.

"Are you back with us, dear brother?" a quiet voice asked.

Sherlock jumped and quickly turned his head to the right, a move he instantly regretted as it sent bolts of pain through his head. He groaned and was then surprised when a cold flannel was placed across his forehead, dispelling most of the pain almost immediately.

"Mycroft?" he rasped, and was furthermore surprised when he saw his brother hold a cup containing a straw to him, and he gratefully drank the cool water.

"Yes, it's me." the elder Holmes answered. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible." Sherlock answered honestly.

Mycroft grimaced. "I'm not surprised." he said. "What do you remember?"

Sherlock frowned. "There was a fire..." He trailed off as he suddenly recalled everything that had happened, and he looked at Mycroft accusingly, anger replacing the pain he felt.

"How dare you–!" he began to shout, but Mycroft cut him off.

"Shh, Sherlock, for goodness sake!" he interrupted, and inclined his head to the other side of the bed.

Sherlock looked across and his heart lurched when he saw John curled up in a chair next to his bed, fast asleep. A light blanket had been thrown across him, and as Sherlock regarded him he noticed a wound that had been stitched up along the side of John's face, and a sling that encased the doctor's right arm, though most of it had been covered by the afghan.

"You've been unconscious for four days, and he's been keeping vigil ever since." He heard Mycroft say softly. "This is the first he's slept."

"What happened to his arm?" Sherlock murmured, eyes still on his friend.

"His shoulder, Sherlock, and from what I've gathered it was dislocated, due a loose beam that fell on him. He still managed to get you out, though."

"What about Lestrade?" he asked suddenly, turning to Mycroft. "He was there too."

"He's recovering well." Mycroft answered. "His ankle had been broken, but he's been in here a few times on crutches, to see how you were doing. Had a nasty gash on his forehead as well, but that's healing nicely. You came out worse out of the four of you, with three broken ribs and a concussion, along with carbon monoxide poisoning, but that's been taken care of."

"Four of us?" Sherlock repeated, brows furrowed.

"Yes, Agent Brownley arrived with John. From what he's told me, the two of them split up, so that he found Inspector Lestrade, and John found you. Fred received a few bruises and cuts, but otherwise he's fine."

Sherlock looked back at John, no longer interested now that he knew everyone else was alright. The doctor looked more peaceful than he had for three months, but Sherlock could still see a slight frown on his face where he was probably battling the pain in his shoulder.

He heard Mycroft take a deep breath behind him, but he didn't turn.

"I made a grave mistake, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "And I was... wrong to think taking John would make things better."

"Yes, you were." Sherlock snapped, glaring at his brother. "You had _no right_ to interfere with our situation, and you only went and made things worse."

"Please, Sherlock, I've already received the lecture from John–"

"No, you don't get off that easily, not after everything that's happened." he argued. "Yes, I told John that I didn't want to speak to him again, but that didn't mean I _meant_ it! You of all people know how I say things without thinking, and John just happened to bear the brunt of my anger.

"You were more than angry, brother–"

"Yes, I was bloody furious–!" Sherlock quickly lowered his voice when he saw John shift out of the corner of his eye. "I was furious," he hissed, "but I was handling it."

"What, by throwing things across the room and then punching a wall?" Mycroft asked condescendingly.

"Yes, that's exactly how. I know it's not the best of methods, but it calmed me down soon enough. And if you had bothered to see that Mycroft, you would've known that you weren't needed there! I had things under control–"

" _No you didn't!_ " Mycroft seethed, leaning closer to his brother. "You were unpredictable! For all I knew you could've attacked John, going by the state you were in, and I doubt either of us wanted that!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft! Of course I wouldn't–"

"How do you know that, though? Can you honestly sit there and tell me–?"

"Boys! _Shut up_!"

Both brothers jumped and looked towards the doorway to see Lestrade there, leaning on his crutches and watching them both with an incredulous expression.

Mycroft regarded Sherlock with a cold glare, who gladly returned it, before standing up and striding towards the door and past Greg without another word.

"Jeez," Greg said quietly, limping over to the chair Mycroft was previously in and settling down with a sigh. "I could hear you two from the end of the corridor. It's a wonder John didn't wake up."

"He did." a voice said, and Sherlock and Greg looked across to see John watching them both blearily and with an amused expression. He turned in his chair so that his legs were back on the floor and the blanket fallen around his waist. "Can't you and Mycroft ever have a civilised conversation?" he murmured, rubbing at his eyes.

"When did you wake up?" Sherlock asked, wondering how much John had heard.

"When Mycroft said you were unpredictable and could have become my murderer." he answered with a smile.

Sherlock returned the smile and Greg chuckled. "I think John would give you a run for your money if you ever did attempt it." the Inspector grinned.

"Mmm." John agreed sleepily, yawning and stretching his good arm. "M'not going down without a fight." he said.

"You two both look as though you could do with a kip." Greg commented, struggling to get to his feet. "I'll leave you to it."

"See you later, Greg." John said as the DI left.

"How are you feeling?" he asked the detective.

"Fine." he answered.

John smiled. "Now tell me the truth." he said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock-innocence.

"We've been playing this game for three months, Sherlock. I'm not that stupid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. "My ribs hurt. That's it." he answered.

The doctor nodded. "I'm not surprised. If I'd known your ribs were broken I wouldn't have carried you over my shoulder."

Sherlock frowned. "But how else would you have gotten me out?"

John shrugged. "I don't know, probably carried you in my arms."

"But then that would have hurt your shoulder."

John sighed. "Yes, but I don't think I would've paid much attention to that. We were in a burning building, after all."

"John–"

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock, anyway. We both got out, and that was my main priority."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, that's not what I was going to say. I was actually going to... thank you. For saving me." he said, avoiding eye contact.

John smiled. "It's alright, Sherlock. You would've done the same, I hope."

"Of course I would." he answered sharply. "Look, what I said before, I didn't mean it. I don't think of you as my 'servant', as you put it, and whatever Lestrade may have done wouldn't have been your fault, it would've been mine."

"It's forgotten, Sherlock, alright?" John said. "I know you were angry, and you had every right to be. And I shouldn't have gone against you anyway. Let's just... call it quits and forget it."

"Agreed." Sherlock said eagerly.

The two sat in silence for some while, and John watched with some amusement as Sherlock's eyelids began to droop due to exhaustion.

"Sleep, Sherlock." he said softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I know." Sherlock murmured, eyes sliding shut. "Though I'd imagine this'll be a good one for your blog."

He could practically feel John's smile. "I wasn't going to blog about it. It wasn't exactly a case." the doctor said.

"Nonsense." Sherlock replied, the darkness looming ever closer. " _Someone_ set fire to the clinic, and I intend to find out who."


	10. Epilogue

"Sleep, Sherlock." he said softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I know." Sherlock murmured, eyes sliding shut. "Though I'd imagine this'll be a good one for your blog."

He could practically feel John's smile. "I wasn't going to blog about it. It wasn't exactly a case." the doctor said.

"Nonsense." Sherlock replied, the darkness looming ever closer. " _Someone_ set fire to the clinic, and I intend to find out who."

* * *

****Two Weeks Later** **

* * *

"He's definitely dead?"

In the centre of the dark and abandoned warehouse were two men – one of them on his knees – lit up by the sunlight streaming in through the grimy windows. The rest of the building was cast in darkness, but Carlos Gutierrez knew his men were lingering. They were what remained of his once massive drug ring, now dwindling to a mere fifty odd. The rest had been arrested and captured, or had fled the country.

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez."

Carlos looked down at the man kneeling before him. He was wearing a zip-up hooded jacket and had his head bent to the ground, his hair covered by the hood. His face was hidden, but Gutierrez had never met this man before, though he'd been told that this was the person who'd completed the task set by him.

"What's your name?" he asked gruffly, crossing his arms.

"Harvey, sir. Marcus Harvey." the man answered in a deep voice. Gutierrez guessed him to be late thirties.

"And you were the one who set fire to the clinic?"

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez."

"You saw Holmes' body?"

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez. He was dead."

"What about his sidekick? John Watkins or whatever it is."

Harvey paused for a moment, and Gutierrez frowned. "He's still alive, sir," The man's voice sounded cold, and Gutierrez shifted. "But he still 'ad a few injuries to account for it."

"What?" Carlos asked sharply. "You said he wasn't there."

Harvey kept his head bent, but his voice sounded shaken. "Well, he arrived 'bout twenty minutes later with some bloke dressed in black..."

"And?" Gutierrez prompted, anger growing inside.

"And... they both pulled out casualties. The guy in black with that Inspector fellow, and... Watkins with 'Olmes."

"But Holmes was definitely dead?"

"Well, he certainly looked like it. 'Is face was all pale and 'is 'ead was bleedin' bad. It'd be unlikely he was alive."

"But it could happen." Gutierrez growled, stalking closer to Harvey. "The one thing I asked for during that mission was to ensure Holmes didn't get out alive. I didn't care _what_ you did, as long as it got the job done. And now you're telling me there's a possibility he's not dead? What do you think he's going to do now, hmm?"

As he came closer, he slowly pulled a revolver from inside his jacket. When he reached the trembling man, he held the gun to the top of his covered head. "You've signed everyone's death certificate you stupid piece of–"

"Drop it, or I will shoot you where you stand." A sudden voice behind him cut him off, and Gutierrez felt the cool barrel of a gun being pressed against the back of his neck.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, calmly waiting for one of his men to stop this stranger.

He heard the safety being released. "I said drop your gun. _Now_."

"You think I'm gonna do as you say?" he retorted with a sadistic grin. "Not a chance. Boys!"

The smile was wiped off his face when no one moved. Gutierrez squinted into the darkness to try and make out any of his men, but there was no one there.

"Yes, you _will_ do as I say." The man behind him hissed. "Do it."

The revolver clattered to the floor next to him, and he raised his hands.

"About time, John, I thought you'd never turn up."

Gutierrez watched with wide eyes, as Harvey got to his feet and raised his head, the hood falling from him to reveal a tall, lanky man with dark curls smiling sweetly at him.

"Would've helped if you'd told us what you were planning." The man behind him sighed.

"You!" Carlos spluttered. He spun to see a short man pointing a Browning at him, watching with a cold expression. "And you!"

"Yes, and it's John _Watson_ , thank you very much." the doctor answered. "Turn around."

Knowing that resisting was futile, Gutierrez turned back to face Sherlock Holmes, watching as the taller man took off the hooded jacket and threw it to the floor. He felt handcuffs being snapped around his wrists, and he closed his eyes in defeat.

"Do we have to stand in darkness? A bit of light please, Agent!" Sherlock called.

"Yeah, alright, just hang on a mo... There we are!"

The long overhead lights groaned and stuttered to life, illuminating the large and empty warehouse, and Gutierrez's jaw dropped open when he saw all his men lying unconscious near the walls, four or five men dressed in black moving amongst them. One of the agents approached the trio and grasped Gutierrez's arms, dragging him towards the exit without saying anything.

"This won't be the last you'll see of me Holmes!" Carlos shouted, but he was shoved outside before he could continue.

"I'll take your word for it." Sherlock muttered, brushing himself down.

"How did you know he was here?" John asked, wincing slightly as he tucked his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, aware of his only recently healed shoulder.

"Mycroft traced the phone call he received to a house in Stuttgart." Fred Brownley interrupted, walking over.

"Yes, and I visited the resident in prison and found out who he worked for and when the next meeting would be." Sherlock continued, casting a disdainful glance at Brownley.

"But didn't feel the need to tell anyone about it?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I told you." Sherlock argued.

"No, you sent me a text saying, 'found Gutierrez; meet me at the warehouse in North Greenwich in three hours. Could be dangerous.' _The warehouse_ doesn't really tell me much, does it? And I didn't even know who Gutierrez was." John said with a sigh.

"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting. "Doesn't matter anymore. Everything went according to plan."

"Only just." John muttered, though his lips twitched.

"So why did this Gutierrez guy want you dead?" Brownley asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, frowning. John rolled his eyes.

"No? Fine. Carlos Gutierrez was part of the drug syndicate I took down three months ago. I had his partner in crime and also his brother, Julian Gutierrez, sent to prison, and I imagine he didn't take too kindly to that." the detective said. "He set a price on my head within his organisation, promising the first person to kill me got the reward."

"I see." Brownley said. "Well, then, I'd better be off. Mycroft will want a report." he added with a half-smile.

Sherlock's expression turned cold. "If he wanted to know what was happening, he could've come here in person." he said icily.

"Leave it, Sherlock." John said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. "He let us go back to Baker Street, remember?"

Sherlock's face remained frosty, but he didn't say anything.

Brownley sighed. "You know what he's like–"

"All too well." Sherlock muttered. John's grip tightened.

"– but I'm not going to argue. It's a miracle I've still got a job, so..." Brownley shrugged.

"Of course." John smiled.

"Catch up with you later." the agent said as he strolled towards the exit.

"Tell your nephew I said hi!" John called. Brownley raised his hand in acknowledgement, walking out the door.

"All of Mycroft's agents are spineless." Sherlock sniffed as the two of them began to head slowly across the warehouse.

"You're calling Fred spineless? The guy who defied the British Government without a second thought for his career?" John asked, incredulous.

" _Most_ of Mycroft's agents are spineless, then."

"Better." John smiled.

Sherlock's phone chirped and he pulled it out of his pocket, reading the text.

"It's Lestrade." he said. "Got a new case." He suddenly groaned as he put his phone away.

"What? I thought you'd be pleased about it." John said, frowning whilst they left the building and headed towards the main road.

"I just know Lestrade's going to contaminate the scene." Sherlock muttered.

"He doesn't usually; why would he decide to now?"

"Because of his bloody crutches! It's been two weeks and he still can't use them properly."

"Stop being so rude." John smiled, nudging Sherlock in the side.

"I'd bet my skull he'll fall over at least twice." the detective said, hailing a taxi.

John grinned. "You're on." he said as they got into the cab and drove off.


End file.
